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SOIL, THE MASTER 


/ 














SOIL, THE MASTER 

BY 

ROSENA A. GILES 



BOSTON, U. S. A. 

THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY 




Copyright, 1924, by 

THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY 



Printed in the United States of America 

THE JORDAN & MORE PRESS 
BOSTON 


my \A> 1924 

©C1A814030- 





CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I. A Preposterous Idea. 3 

II. No Trick to Farm. 13 

III. How Dustan Felt About It . . 17 

IV. Some Farmers and Some Farms 22 

V. Getting Civilized. 38 

VI. Serious Farming and New Year 
Greetings from the Trades¬ 
people . 49 

VII. Mr. Cross and Annette Disagree 65 

VIII. Things Look Bright for the In¬ 
digent 0. F/s . 74 

IX. Annette Digs Into an Unfamil¬ 
iar Strata. 86 

X. So She Got a New Ford, and 

Hired a New Man .... 101 

XI. Annette Receives a Proposal — 

the Hand of the Master . . 115 







VI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XII. Everything Happened — Boot¬ 
leg — and Veeky Laid an Egg 139 

XIII. Two Kinds of Men Show Their 

Mettle.151 

XIV. So She Thought the Farm 

Needed a Manager .... 169 

XV. Then Another One Proposed . 175 

XVI. “ In the Spring a Young Man’s 
Fancy ” — Takes a Curious 
Turn.183 

XVII. The Farm Becomes Engaged . 193 

XVIII. Celia Comes Back.199 

XIX. “ Annette, I’ve Been Waiting ” 206 

XX. An Old Hand Comes Back and 

Zed Goes A-Hunting ... 217 

XXI. Halleck Gave Dick Patton His 

Lesson.228 

XXII. In Which Dick Patton Doesn’t 

Die.236 

XXIII. Francis Boalt Must Go To 

Chicago.242 








CONTENTS 


vii 

PAGE 


XXIV. 

“ Blood Wipes Out Dishonor ” 

250 

XXV. 

Halleck Proves His Love . . . 

261 

XXVI. 

“ All the Tomorrows ” . . . . 

267 

XXVII. 

In the City . 

272 

XXVIII. 

Celia Hears of Paul’s Death . 

282 

XXIX. 

And Martha was so Flustrated 

— She had on One White 
Stocking, and the Other was 



Black. 

284 

XXX. 

The Broken Statue. 

289 

XXXI. 

The New Owner. 

298 



















SOIL, THE MASTER 












Soil, The Master 


CHAPTER I 

A PREPOSTEROUS IDEA 

I didn’t want to be interrupted that June 
morning, for I had a smashing idea for a carica¬ 
ture poster about a farmer who looked so much 
like his own scarecrow that an automobile sales¬ 
man happening along, helped him to plant 
himself in the cornfield, and took the scarecrow 
into town and treated it to a lemon soda! 

I was crazy to get it done before Paul came 
home to lunch; and I was getting along fine 
with the chin whiskers, the galluses, and the 
hay sticking out through the hole in his hat, 
when the door-bell of the apartment rang as 
though it would never stop. 

Thinking it was a vegetable peddler from 
way out in the country beyond South San 
Francisco, on the farming land down toward 
San Mateo, (that’s the way they ring) I didn’t 
pay any attention. I never patronized them 


4 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


anyway, for they always wore great heavy 
boots and had dirty fingernails. 

I didn’t know there was anyone in except 
myself, for I’d seen Mrs. Daniels, the landlady, 
go out with a market basket on her arm, but in 
a minute I heard her pussy footing down the 
hall in the felt slippers that she always wore 
around the house. 

Almost directly she rapped on my studio 
door. 

“ Are you in, Miss Torrel? ” she asked ex¬ 
perimentally. Evidently she thought I wasn’t. 

“No. I don’t want anything.” I called, 
because I didn’t want her to come in, nosing 
around, she was so curious. 

My voice being positive proof of my presence, 
she opened the door and poked in a card, her 
dust-capped head with it. 

“ Gentleman to see you,” she whined. 

“ To see me? ” 

Since no gentleman I knew (except Dustan 
Carter) was likely to come at that hour, and 
Dustan didn’t generally present a card for ad¬ 
mittance, I laid down my charcoal and took the 
card with sooty fingers. It read: 

“ Francis Boalt, Atty-at-Law.” 

“ Good gracious! What’s he selling? Tell 
him I don’t want it. Besides I’m broke.” 

“ He asked to see you.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


5 


I scowled. “ Fm terribly busy; but let him 
in, if he’s bound to come,” I said ungraciously, 
and she withdrew. 

When the tall, middle-aged, gray-mustached, 
terribly provincial looking individual presented 
himself at my door, I looked him over unsympa¬ 
thetically from his shrunken trouser legs to his 
iron gray hair, and said: 

“ How do you do? ” 

He appraised me with his rather keen blue 
eyes — I could see that. He looked pleased 
(for I’ve never been considered hard to look at) 
but not awfully satisfied, as he held out his 
hand and shook my reluctant one with a friendly 
warmth, quite different from the professional 
grip. 

“ Miss Annette Torrel? ” 

“ Yes.” I hadn’t removed my paint-stained 
apron, and I didn’t ask him to sit down, because 
I didn’t want him to get planted and stay all 
day, while neglected Inspiration got up in a 
huff and vanished. But he showed how coun- 
tryfied he was by sitting down uninvited. 
Evidently he intended to stay. 

He leaned back in his chair, slapped his soft 
gray hat once or twice against the region of his 
stomach and crossed his gray trousered knees. 
(His up foot in the air, looked a yard long.) 

In the interest of Art, I wanted to ask him to 


6 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


retire it somewhat into the background, the 
perspective being too sudden for the proper 
artistic value. 

He saw my eyes on his foot, as I waited for 
him to state his excuse for this interruption. 
He put it down constrainedly, and cleared his 
throat. 

“ I came to see you, Miss Torrel, in person,” 
he began; “ at the request of your uncle, 
Nathaniel Manheim. 7 ’ 

“ Uncle Nat? ” My thoughts and eyes flew 
to the drawing on the easel board, where the 
blocked in farmer caricature was unmistakable. 
Uncle Nat was a farmer. 

His eyes followed mine, and back to my face; 
but I couldn’t tell what his odd look meant. 

“ Yes? ” I said again. And as there seemed 
no escape, I sat down opposite him and began, 
rudely, I admit, making with my charcoaled 
finger a symmetrical design of smudges around 
the edges of Francis Boalt’s card. 

He noticed what I was doing, for, in spite of 
his provincialism, his eyes were taking in con¬ 
siderable. But I kept right on. 

“ You know, I suppose,” he continued, with 
an edge on his tone; “ that your uncle is 
dead? ” 

I looked up with a certain feeling of regret. 
“ No, I didn’t.” I wiped the card on my apron 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


7 


and laid it on the table; at the same time 
assuming a more respectful mental attitude 
toward my visitor. 

Mr. Boalt went on with details. 

“ I am sorry," I said; “ that we didn't know. 
Since Aunt Miriam died, our correspondence 
has been quite limited. Our mother is dead, 
and our lives are so different — he didn't seem 
very near. I wrote once or twice, I remember. 
He didn’t answer." 

“ I suppose not. But at the last he recalled 
that you and your brother — " 

“ Paul," I supplied. “ Paul isn't strong," I 
added unnecessarily. 

“ — are the only Manheims left," he con¬ 
cluded. 

“ We aren't Manheims," I interrupted. 
“ Our name is Torrel." 

“ Your mother was a Manheim, and, as you 
know, Nathaniel Manheim outlived all his 
children, so he made his will, leaving you his 
farm." 

“ His farm! To me? " I cried, shocked. I 
shook my head vigorously. “ A farm! Good¬ 
ness. No. I don't want it." 

“ But my dear young lady! " Francis Boalt 
flushed and took me up in consternation. 
“ You must realize it is a very valuable piece 
of property." 


8 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

I laughed, feeling rather foolish. “ Of course. 
I never think of a ranch as something of money 
value. Certainly. I could rent, or sell it.” 

He held up his hand with a most unprofes- 
sionally calloused palm. 

“ No, no! ” he said decidedly. “ Under con¬ 
ditions of the will, you must live on it five 
years.” 

I sat up and stared at him. 

“ Live on it! ” I echoed incredulously. 
“ Me? Buried on a ranch for five years? Fd 
rather be buried anywhere else permanently .” 

Francis Boalt went on in spite of my vehe¬ 
mence. “ If at the end of that time, it is on a 
paying basis, it is yours to do as you wish 
with it.” 

“ But if it isn’t? ” I demanded. “ And of 
course it wouldn’t be. How could I make a 
ranch pay? I’ve hardly ever been on one. I 
hate ranches! I inherit the feeling. My mother 
was raised on a ranch, and she ran away from 
home to escape from it. It wouldn’t be paying 
at the end of a hundred years! ” In my excite¬ 
ment I got up and walked around the room. 

“ Your uncle did not seem to hold such a 
view,” reasoned my visitor. “ He wanted you 
to come back to the land. He hated to see it 
pass into strangers’ hands. And the Man- 
heims have been farmers for generations.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


9 


“ Since the days of the Feudal Barons,” I 
said, rather contemptuously; “ bred in the 
bone, and dyed in the wool. But I am a 
Torrel.” 

“ It is a dairy farm,” continued Mr. Boalt, 
returning to his subject like a book agent; 
“ some good cows — ” 

I turned on him. “ Cows! ” I almost 
shrieked. “ Cows scare me to death. I know 
nothing about cows, except to get on the other 
side of the fence! And to be marooned for five 
years with a lot of cows! ” 

“ They need not necessarily be your only 
companions,” he suggested with a touch of dry 
humor that I could not ignore. I laughed 
grimly. 

He smiled in a companionable way, his con¬ 
straint gone, and talked on argumentatively as 
if he were addressing a jury; but the distaste 
that my mother’s stories of farm life had dis¬ 
tilled in me, made me see no virtue in the 
proposition. ^ 

I shook my head. “ I can’t see it. I don’t 
know what Uncle Nat was thinking of.” 

“ My dear young lady,” Francis Boalt rose 
to his tall thin height, perhaps for emphasis, 
perhaps preparing to end the interview. “ There 
is in this opportunity, a great deal to study 
over. Not only that, but it is also a test as to 


10 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

whether you are a Manheim. And on this I 
think your uncle figured. The Manheims have 
always been true sports, ready to take a chance. 
Here is a chance for big money, if you win. If 
you lose — “he glanced around my little 
studio, and I saw he recognized the camouflage 
of the wall bed. (I could see also that he 
thought I wouldn’t lose much.) His keen eyes 
returned to mine as he held out his big hand. 
“ As I say, it is a sporting chance. Think it 
over. Talk to your brother about it. There’s 
no immediate hurry; but let me know your 
decision soon.” 

I didn’t make any answer except to let him 
shake my hand again. I don’t know what he 
thought as I accompanied him to the front 
door in silence, and let him out. I sneaked 
back to the studio so that Mrs. Daniels wouldn’t 
hear me, and locked the door. 

But she had heard the front door close, and in 
a minute she knocked on my door and tried the 
knob. I could hear the disappointment in her 
step as she shuffled back to her own apartment. 

I sat down on the chair that Francis Boalt 
had vacated and reviewed the ridiculous propo¬ 
sition. It didn’t look alluring to me in any 
way. What would Paul say? “ The Man¬ 
heims have always been true sports.” Weren’t 
the Torrels? 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


11 


Paul and I had been all of the family for 
eight years. Father had left us when Paul 
was eleven, and Mother went a year later. 
Father’s estate was a few canvases, the sale of 
which had helped eke out the wage of Mother’s 
needle. And Mother had left me, Paul; and 
Paul, me. That was about all our legacy ex¬ 
cept what I had inherited of my father’s talent, 
and a flood of loving memories. 

Well, we’d got along. I had turned my brush 
strokes into a modest living, and Uncle Nat had 
put Paul through school. Yet I had to face 
the thing squarely. There wasn’t much future 
in it. I was twenty-eight and had worked hard, 
yet so far, I had gained little even among local 
artists. I had succeeded just once in getting 
by the Exhibition door, and was skied so high 
that even my friends had lame necks for weeks 
afterwards trying to locate my canvas. 

Dustan Carter had kept me at it. There was 
no doubt that he had the “ divine fire,” and if 
I married him I could limp along on his name; 
but that wasn’t success. Besides I didn’t par¬ 
ticularly want to marry Dusty, or anybody else. 
I had to take care of Paul. Dusty wanted me, 
I knew that; though he had asked me only 
twice, barring last night when he had jokingly 
slipped the handsome diamond from his finger 
to mine. 


12 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

We all knew that diamond, his mother’s en¬ 
gagement ring, was destined for Dusty’s wife. 

I spread out my left hand recalling how the 
jewel had flashed in the light. I was awfully 
vain of my hands which somebody was always 
wanting to paint or model because of their 
beauty. The ring fitted my finger exactly; 
and I had only to close my hand on it and it 
would have been mine with all the perquisites 
of Dustan Carter’s name and rising genius. I 
didn’t though. I wasn’t ready. I took it off 
and wished it onto his slim artistic finger. But 
I knew by his look that that didn’t end it. 

He’d have been shocked if he had known 
what I wished. I wished if I ever did marry 
him, that his sister Serena would get kidnapped 
by the Shah of Persia, and remain in his harem 
during my lifetime. I did dislike Serena. 

Well, this was a long way from the ranch 
problem, yet the more I thought about Uncle 
Nat’s preposterous idea, the less feasible it 
seemed. The clock struck 11.30. I sprang up. 
Paul’s lunch! 

I went into the kitchenette and lighted the 
gas. I’d wait and see what Paul had to say. 


CHAPTER II 

NO TRICK TO FARM 

I had lunch nearly ready when I heard Paul 
come in. He was coughing rather badly, for 
the fog had come in earlier than usual, and it 
was raw and cold outside. That cough worried 
me terribly, and his being shut up in a bank all 
day down town didn’t help it any. I had 
watched Father cough his life away just so. 

I turned the gas low and went into the studio, 
which was our living room and dining room by 
day, and my bedroom at night. 

Paul stood before my easel laughing and 
coughing with a bright flush on his cheek. He 
looked around at me, his hazel eyes dancing. 

“ Say, Puss, this is ripping! ” 

To his amazement I took the thumb tacks 
out of the drawing board, crumpled up Farmer 
Corntossel beyond recognition, and tossed him 
into the waste basket. 

I faced Paul tragically, and in a few minutes 
I had told him all about Francis Boalt’s as¬ 
tounding visit. 

“ What do you know about that! ” said Paul 
in an awed voice, sweeping his wavy brown 


14 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


hair back from his wide forehead with his thin, 
clerkly fingers. “ It sounds like a bill at the 
Alcazar: 1 Struggling artist on the brink of 
starvation! Family lawyer! Rich uncle!' Say, 
Kid Ann! Our fortune's made! We can hold 
the giddy ranch down for five years, sell, it for 
fifty thousand, invest the money in Gilt Edge 
and five like princes." 

“ But Paul," I reminded him; “ It isn't as 
easy as that. We've got to make it pay." 

“ Pooh! Don't you lie awake nights over 
that. You know you're some little manager. 
Besides, its no trick to farm. Anybody can 
farm; and make money. Say, Nette, you 
never saw such hicks as come into the bank to 
deposit money. Wads of it! Thousands of 
dollars. Honestly, they don't know a street 
car from an elevator; some of 'em can hardly 
write their own names. But there they are — 
making money like a mint — just farming. 
All come in automobiles. Why, its a snap! 
We could be on Easy Street in six months." 

Paul's enthusiasm swayed, but did not con¬ 
vince me. I remembered the tales of my 
mother's hard youth. 

“ But I know I wouldn't like it, Paul," I 
objected; “ such hard, rough work, and so 
lonesome." 

“ Pshaw, Annette! That's nothing. You 


SOIL, THE MASTER 15 

could come to the city every couple of months. 
Where is this ranch? ” 

“ You know where it is; Uncle Nat’s farm 
up in Stonehouse County. It hasn’t moved.” 

“ Oh, sure! I know a chap who goes up 
there all the time, to Chico — that’s in Stone- 
house County — to visit his cousins. They 
feed him on fried chicken and cream, and fresh 
eggs — laid by real hens. They’ve got a Hud¬ 
son Super, and they tear the world up: joy 
rides, picnics and dances! He says some of the 
country girls are real pippins. Why it’s the 
chance of our lives, Puss.” 

Paul’s eloquence was not exhausted when he 
came home in the evening. He followed me 
into the kitchenette, still brimming over with 
enthusiasm. 

“ I was talking to Morrisey — his brother has 
a pal who’s married up country — Yreka — 
that’s in Stonehouse County. He’s telling me 
all about saddle horses. Says they just give 
’em away up there — practically — and of 
course it doesn’t cost anything to keep ’em on 
a ranch; they just turn ’em out. Morrisey 
and Hunter and Pete are all coming up to stay 
a month with us. I told ’em we’d give ’em a 
good time, all right.” 

Paul paused to sniff at the strawberries I’d 
got for dinner. 


16 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ We’ll have our own strawberries. Finest 
berries in the world raised in Glad Valley — 
that’s in Stonehouse County. Pete’s father 
works in the wholesale market. Says crates 
and crates come in. Want these on the table? 
Oh, say! ” He paused at the swinging door, 
“ I went down to look at cars. We can get a 
Studebaker Six — finest sort of a ranch car 
for — ” 

tl Paul, Paul! ” I broke in. “ We haven’t 
gone to the ranch yet.” 

Paul looked at me astounded. “ Well, we’re 
going; aren’t we? I got the promise of two 
Airedale pups. And,” he added; “ maybe I 
could get rid of this confounded cough that’s 
hacking my head off.” 

That settled it. I put my arms tight around 
his neck and kissed him. 

“ Yes, Paul. We’ll go. I’ll write to Francis 
Boalt tonight.” 

You see, Paul and I had only each other in 
all the world. 


CHAPTER III 

HOW DUSTAN FELT ABOUT IT 

When our friends heard about it, they all 
said that I was the luckiest person they had 
ever known. They raved over ranches and the 
country, and all planned to come and see us. 
And could they have cream, fried chicken, 
strawberries, buttermilk and new-laid eggs; 
and pick wild flowers, go swimming, boating, 
picnicking, horseback riding, to country dances, 
pitch hay and hunt for mushrooms? And 
would Mt. Lassen erupt every day? 

Paul readily promised them all these things. 
But Elsie Stein whose father had just sold his 
ranch in Fresno County and had come to the 
city to live, looked wise at me, shook her straw- 
colored head, and said emphatically: 

“ Believe me, Kid! Elsie’s not coming to see 
you. Elsie’s fed up on ranches. After you’ve 
been in quarantine for six months, escape if 
possible, and come down. We’ll run amuck for 
a couple of weeks. I can’t look a fried chicken 
in the face. It’s a lot easier to extract the 
milk from the milkman, than an old cow, and 
I can get all the scenery that I can assimilate 
at the Cliff House.” 


18 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


I nodded to Elsie. Though I did feel rather 
excited over the novelty and stir of it all, I 
had no rosy dreams concerning the ranch. My 
mind was full of the horrors my mother had 
fled from: cooking over wood fires in July, 
with the mercury at one hundred and ten de¬ 
grees, carrying water in buckets from an out¬ 
side well, rising at five in the morning, doing 
one’s own washing, ironing, baking, house 
cleaning — and of the awful stillness and lone¬ 
someness! Elsie and I compared these notes, 
out of the fullness of Elsie’s own experience. 

But Paul pooh-poohed all this. Things had 
changed since Mother’s time. Automobiles 
and motor trucks had made the country almost 
like the city, with a lot of the disagreeable 
things such as noise and hurry left out. 

A week later Francis Boalt’s answer came, 
and I was in the studio, just sitting there think¬ 
ing about it all. The clock had just struck 
two. Through the window the street outside 
looked hot, and the asphalt shone black and 
runny in spots. Cars and trucks were tearing 
up and down feverishly, because it was Satur¬ 
day and they had to get it all done by six 
o’clock, I suppose. The “ rags, bottles, sacks ” 
man meandered down the street with his 
raucous cry; his old gray horse crawling along 
with a loose shoe clinking against the pavement. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


19 


It should have made me think longingly of 
cool, shady recesses and purling streams of the 
ranch; but instead, I recalled my mother’s 
stories of the hot noons in the farm kitchen, 
and voracious appetites of the hay balers. 

The studio door, being ajar, was then pushed 
open and Dustan came in. He certainly looked 
cool and refreshing in his white flannels and 
straw hat, with a pink carnation in his button¬ 
hole. He held, too, a big bunch of glowing pink 
Killarnies done up in wax paper. 

His naturally pale face was paler than usual 
and very serious. His black eyes darker, and 
his black hair, which he always wore combed 
back from his broad white forehead, seemed 
still darker by contrast. Dustan wasn’t par¬ 
ticularly handsome; his features were too cold 
and aquiline, but he was very distinguished 
looking. However, he had more than looks, 
for his painting, “ Breton Peasants,” had been 
honored in Paris, and created a stir in art 
circles there. 

I crossed the room to meet him. He offered 
the roses without saying anything, which was 
his way sometimes. 

Getting a jar, I began to fix the lovely blos¬ 
soms, while he wandered restlessly around the 
room. He stopped in front of a landscape on 
the wall, bright with a glory of sunset clouds. 


20 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


It was the one bit of Father’s work that Mother 
had clung to through all her deprivations. 

“ Your father was a great artist,” said Dus- 
tan; “ why didn’t the world hear more about 
him? ” 

“ He hadn’t time to develop,” I answered. 
“ He died at fifty without having been sure of 
his own genius. He had wonderful visions, but 
they were swamped by the necessity of earning 
a living for his family.” I spoke bitterly, for 
I had worshiped my father, and felt keenly the 
hard injustice of his failure to win recognition. 

Dustan turned quickly. “ That is what you 
are going to do, if you insist on carrying out 
this mad ranch project.” 

“ I don’t feel that way. I’m only letting go 
for five years, and then I’ll be in a position to 
study art seriously. And — ” 

“ You’re just wasting five years,” he inter¬ 
rupted coming to my side. “ Marry me now, 
and keep right on studying.” 

“ That’s exactly what I can’t do, Dustan.” 
I shook my head. “ There’s Paul. I must 
think of him.” 

“ Oh, Paul! ” he echoed angrily. “ Why 
must you forever be thinking of Paul? He’s —” 

The studio door burst open, and Elsie Stein 
came racketing in, with Paul and all the rest 
of the bunch at her exaggerated French heels, 


SOIL, THE MASTER 21 

their arms full of bundles, prepared to have a 
feed. 

I know that I showed relief in my face for 
Dustan turned away, hurt, and wouldn’t stay, 
though we all begged him. 

His sister Serena’s indolent blue eyes took in 
the situation, I knew, for after he had gone she 
came into the kitchenette where I was light¬ 
ing the gas, and began talking about “ poor, 
impulsive Dustan,” meanwhile watching me out 
of the slant of her eyes. Serena was fair, not 
much for good looks and had to wear reducing 
corsets. (She found it awfully hard to forgive 
me my figure.) She was sort of a a Baby 
Vamp,” and considered herself an artist; but 
even Dustan was just polite over her unspeak¬ 
able daubs. I positively hated her, and for the 
life of me, I couldn’t tell, half the time, whether 
she was trying to be pleasant or disagreeable. 

In my present confusion I got reckless with 
the salad oil, and splashed some on the front 
of her henna silk. Of course I was awfully 
sorry and offered her the gasoline bottle, but 
she went out, and I heard the girls exclaiming 
over the catastrophe. 


CHAPTER IV 

SOME FARMERS AND SOME FARMS 

As I had written to Francis Boalt when 
Paul's vacation came, we would then come 
up and take a look at the ranch, we therefor 
got ready and started. 

The cold fog was searching for our bones as 
we caught an early morning train at the Mole. 
Dustan met us there with a lot of flowers, candy 
and magazines for me. He begged us to ex¬ 
cuse Serena for not coming, it was so early. 

I didn't tell him that Serena pleased me more 
by staying at home, and nobody ever thought 
of seeing her since she was never up before 
eleven. I thanked him for the roses and 
things, and felt grateful for his warm hand¬ 
clasp at the last minute, because it seemed to 
me I was being cast out into an unknown land. 

I saw his serious face for a long time as we 
traveled northward, hour after hour. Noon 
came, and we were still running across a level 
land of varying greens and browns, of shorn 
hayfields, orchards, beans or rice fields. It 
grew terribly hot and the dust set Paul to 
coughing, so that the people turned their heads 


SOIL, THE MASTER 23 

to stare. I hadn’t realized before how tired 
and ill he looked. 

Beyond Sacramento a timid, drab little 
woman and child got on, and sat across the 
aisle from us. She wore an ill-made gray pop¬ 
lin and a pitiful looking hat of the same cloth. 
Her gnarled, red hands were ungloved. 

I couldn’t keep my eyes away from her 
hands; they looked so discouraged like her 
hat; and I’m sure the knuckle of her third 
finger was larger than the wedding ring en¬ 
circling it. 

She carried a lot of clumsy bundles which 
she tried, unsuccessfully, to put in the rack. 
Paul got up and put them in for her. 

She flushed all over her thin freckled face, 
and thanked him with a sort of humble grati¬ 
tude. The little girl looked at Paul, wide- 
eyed. When I gave her some candy, she be¬ 
gan talking eagerly telling me that her hat was 
brand new. She took it off to show me, a 
cheap white straw with a bunch of blue corn¬ 
flowers. 

After a while Paul went into the smoker, and 
the woman began talking. After she had told 
me that she lived on a farm, I felt personally 
interested in her, and told her that I too, was 
going to my ranch. 

She laughed as though I had said something 


24 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

funny, and I saw that she didn’t believe me. 
When I convinced her that I was really serious, 
she looked me over doubtfully and said: “ I 
don’t think you’ll stay there.” She went on 
telling me a lot of things which made me think 
things hadn’t changed much since Mother’s 
time. 

Finally we approached a straggly, dust- 
grimed town which she said was her station. 

Paul, who had returned, got her things down 
for her. 

She thanked him with more assurance this 
time, and told me if I ever came to her town 
to come and see her, which I promised to do. 
As the train slowed down, she looked out of 
the window and said: 

“ Why, there’s Papa now, with the car. It 
must have run good today.” 

I glanced out also, and saw a decrepit Ford 
which I should say, had run itself out of breath, 
by the way it shivered and wheezed. The 
back part was loaded with bundles and sacks of 
something. In front a square can oozed oil, 
and on the running board was a coop or crate 
such as one sees in the fowl markets. 

Behind the wheel sat a small, lean man un¬ 
shaven, in bib overalls and a dusty black hat. 
He got out to meet his folks. 

She left one of her bundles on the seat, so 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


25 


Paul hastened after her with it. Taking it 
nervously, she said “ Goodbye ” again. As 
she turned to receive Papa’s bristly kiss, she 
said anxiously: 

“ What made you have to buy chicken feed 
again right away? ” 

And he asked: “ Who’s your swell friend, 
Mama? ” 

When Paul returned and sat down, I re¬ 
marked, indicating Papa who was absorbed in 
getting Lizzie under way: 

“ See yourself in the future, Paul — a 
farmer.” 

Paul glanced out of the window and back 
again at me, whimsically. 

“ What about you and Mama, Puss? ” 

I clutched his arm spasmodically. “ Oh 
Paul! Let’s turn right around and go back.” 

After hours longer we pulled into our desti¬ 
nation, the town of Maples. There were a few 
bright leaved maples growing by the station, 
and one wide, hot street running through the 
center of the town. It looked a tidy little 
place, but sleepy and dull in the blistering July 
sun. We had expected to be in the mountains, 
but there were just low brown hills dotted with 
scrubby oaks. 

It was our first introduction to Northern 
California, and it seemed so different from the 


26 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


other portions I knew, that I felt when Paul 
offered our checks, to the Station Agent that 
he ought to reply in a foreign language. 

No especial use for checks. Our two suit¬ 
cases were in plain sight on a truck with no 
other baggage about. 

Paul asked for a taxi. The man gripped a 
suspender of his bib overalls in each hand and 
after some cogitation, obligingly said he’d 
telephone to old Potter and ask if his Ford was 
out. 

While we waited, a handsome Cadillac came 
purring up the street, driven by a charming 
young girl. Her red gold hair made a sort of 
glory around her uncovered head, even in the 
shade of the car. As she turned her machine 
with a graceful sweep, I saw her glance at Paul, 
and keen interest flashed into her face before 
she passed out of our range of vision. 

Paul saw it too, and we looked after her down 
the street. A dingy Overland met her. The 
drivers saluted. 

“ Some car! ” said Paul. But I knew he 
meant “ some girl! ” “ That’s the kind of a 

car we ought to get.” 

“ We will when our cucumber trees come into 
bearing,” I promised, as the Overland slid up 
in front of us and stopped. 

The driver got out and came toward us. It 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


27 


was Francis Boalt with a smile of welcome on 
his plain face. He had come to meet us, and 
made profuse apologies for being late — a 
blow-out; and he apologized again for his 
dirty hands as I presented Paul. 

He shook hands heartily. I saw Paul wince, 
and my own fingers stung from the warmth of 
his greeting. 

Saying that it must have been very warm 
coming up, he swung the suitcases into the car 
and opened the front door for me. He glanced 
at Paul who had started to cough again. 

“ I trust those things won’t crowd you? ” he 
said. 

“ Not at all,” Paul answered and got into the 
back seat. 

In a few minutes we were far beyond the 
fifteen mile limit sign and out on the country 
road. It was hot, and a passing car driven by 
an awfully common looking man, dodged in 
front of us, and the dust rolled up in a choking 
tan fog around us, nearly smothering us. 

Mr. Boalt slowed down with the remark 
that the roads were getting dusty. The other 
car passed out of sight and the dust cleared. 
Soon the cool shadows began to creep across the 
plain that stretched between us and the tim¬ 
ber line where our road apparently ended. 

Our host turned to Paul to point out far 


28 SOIL, THE MASTER 

famed Lassen, a blunt, reddish cone with a 
white streak of snow down one side and a 
gauzy veil of white mist across the summit. 
The attendant mountains, Bally and Broke 
Off Butte, and lesser peaks clustered near like 
a queen’s tiring maids. 

“ Is it going now? ” asked Paul, leaning to 
get a better view. 

“ Possibly and possibly not. That looks like 
a cloud; but there is no knowing at what 
minute it may become a serious eruption. 
There’s Mount Shasta to the left. It’s our 
pride.” 

I turned my head. The great snow-white 
monument of the ages stood back, aloof, be¬ 
hind flat blue mountains, cool and pale in the 
evening’s gathering shadows like a god appear¬ 
ing for a brief moment upon Olympic heights. 

It was difficult to realize that it was a solid 
mass of granite, it looked so illusive and ethereal 
like moonlit fog. If it had faded and vanished 
before my eyes, I should not have felt the least 
surprise. But it remained there. The delicate 
blue shadows appeared in the crevasses, and the 
warm glow of sunset tinged the snow to pink. 

I lost it after we slid down a long curving 
hill and passed between broad green fields of 
alfalfa, where sheep and hogs stood half sub¬ 
merged in the sweet scented billows. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


29 


Here the Cadillac and its lovely driver went 
by us. An elderly man with close trimmed 
gray beard sat beside her. She tooted merrily 
as she passed, and I’m sure her gay nod was 
for me. I couldn’t help smiling and waving 
my hand in return. 

“ Miss Celia Hilyard and her father,” ex¬ 
plained Francis Boalt as the car rapidly dimin¬ 
ished in the distance. “ They live here.” 

He went on with quite a lot of information 
about them. It seemed that they were not 
real farmers, Mr. Hilyard having made money 
in mines. But they enjoyed the country, and 
spent a portion of the year on their ranch. 
They would perhaps, stay the winter. 

This topic was cut short because, quite sud¬ 
denly, we rolled over a long bridge, and the 
gleaming Sacramento River lay beneath us, 
reflecting the evening sky in a gigantic mirror. 
To the left, far up stream where the river curved, 
Shasta appeared again, blushing rose red. 

I turned to Paul. “ Paul! Isn’t this won¬ 
derful? Beautiful! Oh, please, Mr. Boalt, 
drive slowly.” 

I twisted my head to the right and to the 
left as we passed over. 

To the left, the majestic silver stream moved 
slowly between curving red banks, lined with 
splotches of verdure. Below us, it spread out 


30 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


smooth as ice, reflecting the opaline tints of the 
sunset, deep, deep as the heavens are high, 
and framed in oaks, and willows of glistening 
green. 

Farther down, a ripple disturbed the reflec¬ 
tion, the stream divided to flow around an 
island of gray gravel; and above the bend of 
the river bank, in the distance, rose three round 
blue-green mounds. 

We left the river and drove around a range of 
low, rolling hills, white with dry grass burned 
by successive days of hot sunshine. Yet the 
barren landscape was relieved by trees, and 
more trees, green and fresh as if newly laun¬ 
dered. In the fields to the right, groups of 
kingly oaks sheltered red and white cattle from 
the too fervid heat. 

Nearing the end of the lane, we stopped at a 
gate where a tall white house showed through 
the trees. 

“ Fm taking you to my house/ 7 said Francis 
Boalt. “ Mary is expecting us to supper.” 

I supposed, of course, that Mary was his 
wife; but it turned out that the smiling creature 
of vast dimensions who came to the door 
wiping her hands on her gingham apron, was 
his housekeeper, Mary Marks. 

She took us under her broad wing, like a 
nice old Plymouth Rock hen. I could almost 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


31 


hear her cluck as she bustled about us; taking 
my wraps, setting a chair for Francis Boalt, 
and hastening after some home-made hoarhound 
lozenges for Paul's cough. 

Mr. Boalt’s place was beautiful. A big, old- 
fashioned house, roomy and comfortable, set 
in the midst of the loveliest grove of oaks. 
His father had owned the place before him. 
His parents had both died there, and his wife 
also. He had one son, Timothy Boalt, who 
had been born there, but was now a rising law¬ 
yer in Chicago. 

Mr. Boalt invited us to remain as his guests, 
and the next day he took us over to our own 
place, which was some three miles farther up 
Beckwith Creek. 

I must say our place was something of a 
shock to me when we stopped at the gate. 
The old house, a stranger to paint, sort of 
slouched in the middle of what had been a huge 
garden. But now it was all choked with weeds, 
and most of the shrubbery dead. One strag¬ 
gling oleander bravely flourished its rose colored 
blossoms, and some of the roses were still a 
rusty green. For the rest, there was nothing 
but stickery weeds as high as my waist. 

The long, low house had been well built, but 
the porches were tumbling, and the roof leaked. 
Only the kitchen part was habitable. This was 


32 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


where Uncle Nat had lived the three years 
since Aunt Miriam’s death, with one old man, 
Alfred Cross, who remained there and took 
care of the cows. 

The barns were in better condition, and there 
were beautiful trees everywhere; great oaks 
and walnuts whose gnarled branches swept 
through cathedral-like arches and touched the 
ground; or lifted like emerald wings of Inspira¬ 
tion, moving gently against the clear blue of 
the sky. 

There were fine pastures too, farther away 
from the house, knee deep with alfalfa, green 
as a park and dotted with purple bloom. Here 
we found Mr. Cross who turned at Francis 
Boalt’s halloo and, seeing us, started toward us 
with a muddy shovel on his shoulder, and 
splashed up to the road in his rubber boots. 

“ He’s irrigating,” explained Francis Boalt, 
indicating the fields of young corn which seemed 
all afloat from the great ditches booming along 
bank-full, at one side. 

Mr. Cross approached the car slowly, stop¬ 
ping at intervals to adjust the rivulets between 
the corn rows. Evidently he didn’t consider us 
of any great importance. He came within 
speaking distance at last; a weazened little old 
man with a long upper lip. He squinted at us 
inquiringly from mild brown eyes. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


33 

“ Humph, that you, Francis? ” he asked by 
way of greeting. 

Mr. Boalt didn’t deny it. He presented Paul 
and me. 

Mr. Cross nodded his tattered straw hat and 
said, “ Pleased to meet you,” and gave us both 
a good “ once over.” He passed Paul up, but 
said that I favored Uncle Nat, only I was some 
better looking! Then he wanted to know what 
I thought of the ranch. 

“ Seems very nice,” I said. “ Lovely fields.” 

He stuck the shovel upright in the black soil, 
pushing it in deep with his boot, and asked if 
we wanted to get out and look around. 

Of course we did. We got out of the car, 
and skirting the irrigated areas — for the water 
seemed to be everywhere in tawny pools and 
streams, we followed our leader to the cow 
pasture. 

There were a lot of cows, sleek, placid crea¬ 
tures with red and white skins and enormous 
udders; and one lordly white bull which might 
easily have been a lineal descendant of Rag- 
horn, the snow white bull on which Priscilla 
rode like a queen to her wedding. 

“ His name is Raghorn,” I said to Paul. 

They all wandered about aimlessly cropping 
the green, or lay lazily in the sunshine chewing, 
chewing like flappers at a matinee. 


34 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Mr. Cross led us to another pasture where 
the calves, cunning little replicas of the mothers, 
and the young heifers, which seemed to be a 
cross between a cow and a calf, took alarm at 
our appearance, and ran wildly to the extreme 
end of the lot where two sorrel horses grazed. 
In the field adjoining were perhaps a dozen 
horses that took alarm from the upraised head 
of a dark bay, and all galloped to the far side 
of the field, then wheeled and faced us, snorting 
like Pegasus. 

“ They ain’t much used to women folks,” 
said Mr. Cross. u Do y’ like dogs? ” he asked 
suddenly. 

“ We’re crazy about them,” I said. 

He whistled, and a black long-haired dog 
came leaping out of the corn field. It stopped 
and looked at Paul and me. 

“ What breed is he? ” asked Paul. 

“ Half shepherd,” said Mr. Cross promptly; 
“ and half Scotch Coaly.” 

Paul looked a little puzzled until Francis 
Boalt remarked that the Scotch Collie was a 
very intelligent dog. Then he turned to me 
and began to enthuse over the beauty and full- 
hearted serenity of farm life, the peace and 
quiet of the fields. 

“ Yes, it’s quiet,” said I, for the silence was 
already pressing on me, as if I were down a 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


35 


well or up in a balloon. Everything was still, 
yet quivering with an intangible pulse, perhaps 
it was the striving of the earth itself. I sug¬ 
gested that we go. 

Mary had dinner ready when we got back 
to Francis Boalt’s home. And there was a 
new equation in the shape of a colorless, white 
haired young man, whom our host introduced 
as Mr. Carmichael. 

At first I really thought he was somebody, 
the way he rose and shook hands with quite a 
manner, and his accent at once stamped him as 
English. But he turned out to be the hired man, 
and that explained his muddy boots at dinner. 
Fancy, shaking hands with the hired man! 

During the meal Francis Boalt told us all 
about the country. How it was an awfully old 
settled section, where nearly everybody had 
lived and raised their families, and lost them 
to the “ city’s wiles ” (I quote Francis Boalt). 
And now the old people sat tight, and held the 
land until the time when the young blood 
should come back. 

To our dismay we learned that the young 
people had nearly all gone. But the families 
were a splendid class of fine, respectable people, 
excellent neighbors, and upright, estimable 
citizens. 

I nodded my head at my host, and shot a 


36 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

glance at Paul. “ Excellent neighbors ” and 
“ estimable citizens ” didn’t sound very ex¬ 
hilarating! 

Paul listened with polite attention to Mary, 
who sat opposite Francis Boalt. Her moon 
face shone with kindliness as she told Paul about 
her twin sister, Martha, and how devoted they 
had always been to each other. 

Mr. Carmichael sat silent, eating busily. 
Once he looked up and I happened to catch his 
eye. He blushed furiously, concluded his meal, 
and with a murmured excuse, rose and tramped 
out in his clumsy boots. 

Francis Boalt continued: about Uncle Nat 
and my end of the game. There were but two 
restrictions laid on me. I could never mortgage 
the land beyond a certain sum, and I must re¬ 
main single during the five years. 

“ And suppose I do not? ” I said, because I 
always liked to know exactly where I stood. 

“ In that case,” Mr. Boalt hesitated over 
Uncle Nat’s ultimatum; “ the property will be 
sold, and the proceeds given to the Odd Fellows’ 
Home, of which lodge your uncle died a mem¬ 
ber.” 

Paul turned and spoke up sharply, showing 
that he wasn’t as absorbed in Mary’s twin as 
he seemed. “ I think we’d have a perfect right 
to contest such a will.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


37 


Mr. Boalt regarded him somewhat austerely. 
“ You could do so,” he said: “ but it would be 
of no advantage to you. There is no flaw in 
the will, I drew it up myself. It provides a 
small legacy for each of you, which protects it 
from attack.” 

“ Of course we should never think of doing 
that,” I said quickly, surprised and annoyed at 
the stand Paul had taken. “ Uncle Nat’s 
wishes will be respected and carried out to the 
best of my ability.” 


CHAPTER V 

GETTING CIVILIZED 

We bade Mr. Boalt and Mary goodbye the 
next day and returned to the City. Anxious to 
begin our farming, we wound up our affairs 
there and came back to the ranch about the 
middle of August. 

It was hotter than July, if possible, and the 
harvests were in full blast. The roads, deep 
with dust, were alive with hurrying cars, and 
trucks loaded with house-high stacks of boxes 
and trays for the fruit drying; with hay, ma¬ 
chinery, or roughly dressed harvest hands. 

The laden orchards were breaking under their 
weight of fruit, and the fields were dotted with 
enormous haystacks, and teeming with harvest 
paraphernalia. 

Surely it was the land of abundance. 

On my own ranch there were similar activities, 
on a smaller scale. Yet as I gazed at my fertile 
acres, lush with alfalfa and young corn, I felt 
thrilled to be a part of all this business of the 
soil. I too, was a land baron. 

There was undoubtedly plenty to be done 
before we could live at the ranch, for the house 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


39 


wasn’t habitable. Francis Boalt invited us to 
stay at his home until we could get our place 
ready. 

We didn’t waste any time. Uncle Nat had 
left a respectable bank account for a starter. 
Considerate old man! When I thought of him, 
I felt guilty that we had done so little for him 
in his last, lonely years. But it couldn’t be 
helped now. The only thing to do was to re¬ 
spect his wishes, and carry them out to the best 
of my ability. 

I wanted to learn all I could from observa¬ 
tion, so with this idea in view, we accepted 
Francis Boalt’s invitation to drive through and 
see the country at large. The beauty of the 
valley struck me anew. Shasta and Lassen 
looked down on us from the right and left, and 
far blue hills encircled the valley, making it like 
a great round bowl. 

Everywhere there were trees, noble, broad¬ 
armed oaks and white-boled sycamores draped 
with wild grape and glistening poison ivy. In 
another section, odorous pines and scrubby 
oaks burdened with mistletoe dotted the hills. 
Creeks and ditches of clear blue water were 
there; though this, for the most part seemed 
idle, for many of the fields were bare and brown. 

“ Can’t this water be used? ” I asked. 

“ Yes.” I caught in his answer a note of ex- 


40 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

cuse rather than an affirmative. “ It will be 
used more and more.” 

He named the ranches as we passed. I 
looked and listened. Most of the homes were 
unlovely and neglected. I saw ill-dressed 
women doing various kinds of manual labor in 
the yards. And yet Francis Boalt said there 
was a great deal of money here. 

I laughed shortly. “ Wealthy men! And 
such homes? We see such in the outskirts of 
the city sometimes where they keep a goat, or 
the ashman’s cart stands in front of the door.” 

His face reddened under my scathing criti¬ 
cism. I had totally over-looked the fact that 
these people were his friends and neighbors. 
He sought to defend them by saying that a 
great many of the ranches did not pay. 

“ Why not? ” I demanded. 

“ Principally because we need young blood,” 
said Francis Boalt almost sadly. “ Young 
blood and new blood; blood with the hope and 
strength and courage to attack the land along 
new lines. We who hold the land now are 
tired. It is waiting for a new era, a new genera¬ 
tion. Our fathers wrested it from the wilder¬ 
ness, from the hand of the savage and the teeth 
of the grizzly bear as far back as 1846. This is 
the oldest settlement north of Sutter’s Fort. 
My problems were different from my father’s, 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


41 


as the problem the land presents now is different 
from that of two decades ago. The land,” he 
continued; “ is now sick, as Agriculture is sick, 
because the new generation in this time of rush 
and hurry, is not willing to submit to the slow 
movement of the soil; not patient under its 
demands. In short, the fighting blood of the 
present generation wants to conquer by the 
assault of pitched-battle; but the soil only 
yields to the long intelligently laid siege.” 

I groped, rather, for his meaning. It sounded 
hard, awfully hard. 

“ Perhaps,” I ventured; “ it is as my father 
used to say, they need a vision.” 

“ The soil is a dual thing,” he continued along 
his own line of thought. “ It must be regarded 
as a friend, yet conquered as an enemy; for, 
like all primitive things, even the primal in¬ 
stincts that still cling to our civilization, it must 
recognize and yield to force before it will react 
to persuasion.” 

I was really awfully impressed by his analysis 
of the force against which I had had the te¬ 
merity to pit my feeble strength and wit, but 
Paul was patently bored. He interrupted 
with: 

“ Gee! There’s a good looking skirt. I be¬ 
gan to think there wasn’t any here.” 

We had just descended a long wooded hill. 


42 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

At the bottom a small clearing held a rough 
board house. The ground about it was bare 
and dusty. Three lean shoats lay and grunted 
under the live oak shade, and a young girl in 
white, coquetted with a gawky, gum-chewing 
youth astride a roan horse. 

She lifted her face, pretty as a wild pansy, 
and nodded as we passed. 

Francis Boalt lifted his hat sedately, as be¬ 
came an elderly gentleman. But she wasn’t 
looking at him; she was looking at Paul. 

“ It’s Miss Lucy Graham,” explained Mr. 
Boalt indifferently. “ The Grahams are a poor 
family which has moved here recently. There 
are three boys and Mr. Graham.” 

We drove on in silence for a mile. Somehow 
I couldn’t help thinking about that girl. It 
was such a lonely, out-of-the-way place for one 
girl and no other woman near. 

“ Were you born to ranching, Mr. Boalt? ” 
I asked to resume the conversation; “ or did 
you achieve it, or was it thrust upon you? ” 

“ All three,” he smiled. “ I was born on a 
farm, but I left it for many years while I prac¬ 
ticed law. Yet much of my legal business has 
pertained to the land. Eight years ago I came 
back, for I want to hold the land for my son.” 

“ Does he want it? ” I asked bluntly, as we 
stopped at his gate. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


43 


“ Can you doubt it, Miss Torrell? ” Francis 
Boalt indicated with his still scholarly hand, 
his broad pastures, his shorn stubble fields, his 
laden orchards. “ He is of the land; he’ll 
come back to it eventually.” He got out, 
slammed the car door decisively, and went to 
open the gate. 

“ I imagine it! ” I remarked to Paul. Mary 
had showed me a picture of Timothy Boalt — 
class all over him — and told me about his 
successful law practice in Chicago. “ I see him 
here on the ranch grubbing up the weeds in the 
front yard, and carrying slop to the pigs, as I 
saw Mr. Boalt doing this morning.” 

“ Sure thing! ” laughed Paul, as Mr. Boalt 
returned to the car. Then Paul remembered 
his manners and got out to shut the gate after 
we had passed through. 

That evening at dinner Mr. Carmichael had 
assumed a clean shirt and his coat, because it 
was Sunday, I suppose; and to my amazement, 
began to address his conversation to me. 

Paul looked him up and down, but Mr. Boalt 
seemed to take it perfectly all right, so I was 
forced to be civil. 

He too, began talking about the land, its 
reach and scope and stability; its bounty, and 
influence on civilization. Curious conversation 
for a hired man! I wondered where he got it. 


44 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ And of course you are familiar with its in¬ 
fluence on your American Educational system, 
and religious foundation? ” 

“ I’ve never heard it discussed,” I said, all 
at sea. 

He went on to tell me about “ The Great 
Stake,” and when and which states set aside 
portions of their lands for educational and re¬ 
ligious purposes, and about Benjamin Simms of 
Virginia who gave “ two hundred acres of land, 
with the milk and increase of eight cows, for the 
maintenance of a free school for the children of 
Elizabeth City and Kiquotan parishes.” There 
was a lot more about land grants, etc. I had 
never heard of it before. He must have been 
studying up to impress people! 

I didn’t say much because I was getting fed 
up on the virtues and attributes of the land; 
and the idiosyncrasies of the soil. I was glad 
when we swallowed the last mouthful of Mary’s 
delicious pudding and got up from the table. I 
offered to help Mary wash dishes, and Mr. 
Carmichael went to play the Victrola for Paul. 

In the kitchen, Mary told me if I wanted to 
get somebody to help me her sister Martha 
would like a job. She was anxious to get out 
into the country for a while. Also, she told me 
a lot of interesting things about Mr. Car¬ 
michael. It seemed he wasn’t exactly a hired 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


45 


man, but was out here from England to learn 
agriculture. He was the sixth son of the Earl 
of Derran, and though he had very little chance 
of succeeding to the title, he had hope of a 
legacy from an aunt. Well, of course that 
showed Mr. Carmichael in a new light, and 
explained his learned conversation. 

“ Mr. Boalt wants Tim to come back here, 
and he and Mr. Carmichael take over the 
ranch ” continued Mary, scraping a pot vi¬ 
ciously; “ but he don’t want to. It’s too bad 
the young folks won’t stay on the farms.” 

Goodness! Mary was getting started. 

She went on to tell me that Mr. and Mrs. 
Arpsbagger, on my left, had a son cruising 
around somewhere, for whom they were keeping 
their place. And Mr. and Mrs. Cattman on 
my right, had Mrs. Cattman’s daughter Norah, 
who had a Marinella shop in New York, and 
they were holding on for her. 

I remarked that I supposed when Nonie got 
tired of New York, she could come and set up 
a Beauty Parlor on the Beckwith. 

Mary wasn’t without a sense of humor. She 
cackled fatly, finished things up, and we went 
into the living room to listen to the Yictrola. 
But after I went to my room, I reviewed all 
that she had said. Just so, I suppose, Uncle 
Nat had dreamed. 


46 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Next day being Monday, I decided to begin 
work on my place. I’d got one thing out of 
my survey of the country side. Clean up, 
Pick up, and Dig up! was my slogan. 

I began to vision what sort of a place I 
wanted for a home, and I saw how we could 
accomplish it. If I was to be sacrificed to the 
lust of the land for young blood, I must have 
something to show for it. 

The house, which was long and low, some¬ 
thing of the Bungalow type, suited me all 
right. There was only to re-roof it, fix the 
porches, and furbish up the inside. 

We got a crew of carpenters and painters and 
I revelled in the sound of saw and hammer, 
the newness of fresh paint, and the importance 
of being consulted a hundred times a day about 
steps, windows, partitions, closets, and every¬ 
thing. I knew just what I wanted, and I must 
say the workmen were very nice, fixing all 
things according to my desires. 

I sent for Martha, who was a fat replica of 
Mary, to cook for this bunch of men. I also 
sent to the city for a landscape gardener, and 
I’ll tell you the country people gasped when 
that terrible weed-cursed inclosure began to 
put on the graces of civilization. I had the old 
out-buildings torn down, the whole place re¬ 
graded from the high ground back of the house 


SOIL, THE MASTER 47 

to the half circle of enormous oaks, and the 
running stream at the foot. 

Of course the house was in the wrong place, 
but Mr. Pellier got around that cleverly, by 
connecting a great oak behind it with tall 
shrubbery, all ready to set in, which we had 
sent up from the city. 

A broad drive of white brick ran by the house 
down to the water’s edge with a space to turn 
a car, and also where I could have chairs, ham¬ 
mocks and tea tables under the spread of a 
wonderful oak. 

He left space for a cunning rock garage, for 
there were loads of cobble stones about, and 
planted the whole inclosure to trees and shrubs 
just in the right places. 

It was lovely. Every day some of the farmer 
folk drifted by or stopped in to stare and com¬ 
ment. The editors of the country newspapers 
came out and wrote us up, and said we were 
just what the country needed for its progress. 

But I must admit the gray-beards shook their 
heads solemnly and said that it was too bad to 
waste old Manheim’s money in foolishness; 
we’d last quick, etc. I didn’t let any of it 
bother me; in fact, I enjoyed it. And Paul 
said it would do the hicks good to be waked 
up! “ And see what 1 vision ’ can do for 
people,” I added. 


48 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

At last Mr. Pellier finished, modestly accepted 
my glowing thanks (said it had been a very 
great pleasure to him), and presented his bill. 

I ran my eyes down the items, trees, tools, 
shrubs, plans, etc., to the total — the frightful 
total! 

My knees went weak. I toppled over on a 
handsome rustic bench. Honestly I was unable 
to stand! I realized with an awful dryness in 
my throat why farmers didn’t have visions 
habitually! 

Well, after the first shock was over, I began 
to revive. It was the show place of the country 
side, and it would be lovely to entertain the 
Bunch here. They were all invited to come as 
soon as we got things habitable. We got a 
good looking Nash car. Saddle horses had 
gone out of style in the country. Nobody rode 
except Indians, for pleasure, I mean. Every¬ 
body had cars, and besides we didn’t find any¬ 
body giving horses away. We bought one from 
Mr. Cattman, for Paul to ride about the farm. 
Mr. Boalt said it was an “ old skate,” and we’d 
been shamefully imposed on as to price, but we 
didn’t find that out until afterwards. Any¬ 
how, we felt that we were getting started. 


CHAPTER VI 


SERIOUS FARMING AND NEW YEAR GREETINGS 
FROM THE TRADESPEOPLE 

It wasn’t until the last of September that 
Paul and I went seriously to farming. We got 
some heavy boots and good looking shade hats, 
and had our picture taken with the horse and 
the two Airedales. We looked like farmers all 
right. 

Mr. Boalt told us about Farmer’s Bulletins 
we could get just for the asking, about all sorts 
of things, and gave us a list to choose from. It 
must be the farmer’s fault if he doesn’t make 
money when the Government tells him exactly 
how to do everything. 

We got a lot, and they looked awfully inter¬ 
esting, with pictures and all. I read one aloud 
to Paul. We decided to save the rest until the 
long winter evenings came. 

Paul fixed a nice shelf for them beside the 
fireplace and we piled them up in neat piles, 
feeling just like real farmers. 

The one I read was all about Mad Itch in 
cattle. Poor things! It said that their suffer¬ 
ings were intense. I got quite worried for fear 


50 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

our dairy cows might have it, for I hadn’t 
examined them very closely. I asked Mr. 
Cross about it, and he said, “ Dad Burn it, no! 
What put such a fool idee in your head? ” 

I didn’t consider it a proper way for an em¬ 
ployee to speak. I said in a very dignified way: 
“It is entirely possible, Mr. Cross. Please 
take every precaution. And if you see any 
indication, prompt attention is imperative. 
That is what this bulletin says.” I gave it to 
him, and I think he must have watched them, 
for I never heard of any of them having it. He 
was a very faithful old man. 

There wasn’t anything to do at this time of 
the year, on the ranch, except keep the silo 
corn hoed and irrigated, cut the milo, dig the 
late potatoes, gather in the apples and pump¬ 
kins; except, of course, the milking and 
“ chores,” and little things like hauling in the 
winter’s wood and cleaning up the barnyards, 
and taking care of the shrubbery and grass 
around the house, so we decided we might as 
well take a week off. I asked Mr. Cross if he 
thought he could spare us. 

He was awfully nice, and said: “ Easier than 
not I reckon. Trot right along.” We felt 
perfectly safe in leaving him. It seemed that 
Uncle Nat had trusted him implicitly. 

We drove down to the city in the car, stayed 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


51 


a week, and had a splendid time. We brought 
half a dozen of the Bunch back with us, includ¬ 
ing Dusty; — Serena was in St. Louis, for which 
I was devoutly thankful. 

They all just went crazy over the ranch. 
Jimmy Prague said he had always intended to 
marry a ranch, and proposed to me before 
dinner. 

I said: “ I’ll have to wait and see how my 
crops turn out.” I had learned, already, that 
no farmer ever decides anything until he is 
absolutely settled as to the vagaries of his crop 
yield. 

The girls were just as wild over it; there were 
so many things to paint and sketch. Every¬ 
where you went, during the next week, some¬ 
body’s easel was propped up; and the house 
reeked with the smell of paint, turpentine and 
fixatif. 

Dustan began to search for a “ peasant ” 
type. I suggested the man that Mr. Cross had 
hired in our absence, but Dusty said he looked 
too hangdog. 

He was a queer looking object, and dear me! 
I took Mr. Cross to task about him; I said: 

“ It’s impossible to keep a man like that, Mr. 
Cross. He’s shamefully dirty.” 

Mr. Cross wanted to know what that had to 
do with it. 


52 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ Everything ” I said. “ Why — he — he —” 
I stammered over the literal truth; “ he smells 
so!” 

Mr. Cross pursed out his lips. “ Well, Ill 
tell you, Miss Torrel; he’s a good worker. 
You ain’t been at the game long enough to 
know that workin’ is a lot more important than 
smellin’ in a hired man.” 

I was so indignant. I said decisively: 

“ Well, he’ll either have to be dismissed — 
or — laundered.” 

Mr. Cross pursed out his lips again, but he 
didn’t presume to say any more. At lunch 
the man had on a clean shirt which didn’t al¬ 
together make him a la France, but he offended 
the eye less. 

Martha, who had proved herself more than 
satisfactory, had a letter from her daughter 
who was ill and wanted her to come; so I let 
her go for a fortnight. It was unfortunate, but 
everybody said we could get on. We just 
bivouacked, getting canned things, bread and 
fresh meat from town, by going after it. It 
was really more fun than having regular meals, 
but that ridiculous hired man got sulky and 
threatened to leave unless he had regular meals. 

I said to Mr. Cross, “ Very well; let him 
quit.” The idea, of my having to be dictated 
to by a repulsive hired man! 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


53 


Mr. Cross looked at me for a minute, but he 
saw I was not to be trifled with. “ He’s a durn 
good worker,” he said. As if that was a mantle 
of charity to cover all sins! After a little, he 
said if I didn’t mind, he’d cook for the man 
and himself in the bunk house until my com¬ 
pany left. 

Mind! I told Mr. Cross his initiative made 
him doubly valuable to me, and to let me know 
anything he wanted me to get for him. 

He answered respectfully enough. He was 
a faithful, good old man. 

Later Dustan came in, much amused, and told 
me he had heard my manager say to the hired 
man that they’d cook and eat sensible in the 
bunk house until that dam-fool bunch left. 
“ Why the idea! Dustan, the very idea! ” I 
said. “ Mr. Cross has always been such a nice 
old man.” 

Dustan laughed and laughed, and seemed to 
think Mr. Cross a great sport, and afterwards 
took all sorts of pains to make friends with 
him. 

Things were much more comfortable with 
the two men gone from the table, and my not 
having to think about them all the time, which 
was a strain, I tell you! 

We picnicked, motored, rowed on the river, 
danced and had private theatricals, and feeds, 


54 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

and explored the country. We had an inde¬ 
scribable time! Paul and I decided we’d never 
want to sell the ranch. No wonder people were 
crazy over farming! 

Francis Boalt asked us all over there, and we 
had the run of his big house. They all fell in 
love with Mary and her hot biscuits, and of 
course, I explained about Mr. Carmichael and 
his prospects. 

We did something every night, for there were 
two weeks of the most enchanting moonlight, 
which made the broad expanse of the Sacra¬ 
mento River a perfect dream of beauty. Of 
course it was all as mild as could be, and per¬ 
fectly proper, but we scandalized the whole 
estimable country-side by our midnight frolics. 
Even Francis Boalt’s impregnable reputation 
was almost overthrown by association. 

I found this out later. Also, that respec¬ 
table farm folk have certain stated forms of 
amusement of which they approve, and all other 
enjoyments are of a questionable character. 

Well, it all had to end. They went home. 
Martha came back, and Paul and I resumed 
our farming. 

I was glad to see Martha back again. We 
grew fond of her in a very short time. She was 
lots like Mary, except that Mary had remained 
almost a celibate (her one husband proving to 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


55 


have a living wife, but nobody blamed Mary). 
Martha had had three husbands, all of whom 
had obligingly died. This three-fold grief had 
not stopped her comfortable laugh, nor her 
capacity to turn oh work. She was a motherly 
creature, and called Paul and me, “ Children.” 
It sounded good to me. I had borne the brunt 
of things ever since Mother’s death. 

Mr. Cross and the odorous man decided quite 
of their own accord to quit “ batching ” as they 
called it. I intended to speak to Mr. Cross 
about it as not having them around was so much 
nicer. But Martha said it wouldn’t do. Hired 
men always expected to eat in the house, and 
everyone else let them, so I had to abandon 
the idea. I don’t think he ever changed his 
shirt again! I mean the hired man. 

The autumn progressed, wonderful in a thou¬ 
sand ways. Such long, quiet days of mellow 
charm; soft, dreamy evening twilights, and 
cool mornings crisp with a tang Francis Boalt 
called “ fall.” I painted and sketched to my 
heart’s content, and Paul had his music. But 
he liked best to be out of doors. He scoured 
around the country on his horse, grew brown 
and almost lost his cough. The hills were alive 
with long-eared jack rabbits, which nobody 
cared anything about, but the Airedales took 
to them like ducks to water. Paul spent half 


56 SOIL, THE MASTER 

his time coursing with them over the rough 
hills. 

It was fine, until Mr. Cross’ dog began to go 
too, and then Mr. Cross, who had always been 
nice to Paul, got so furious and swore in the 
most disrespectful manner at him. 

It bowled Paul right over. He hadn’t asked 
the silly dog to go. 

I heard it, and I walked right out there, about 
as angry as Mr. Cross. 

I said: “ Mr. Cross, you can pack your effects 
and leave — immediately.” 

He looked at me, so amazed, and rolled his 
tobacco into his other cheek. Then he screwed 
his mouth around and stuck out his lips, and 
said: 

“ Now see here, Miss Torrel. Them two 
Airydales is just good-to-look-at dogs, and the 
further they are off, the better they look to me. 
I ain’t goin’ to have ’em teachin’ Shep to go 
rammin’ around after jack rabbits. He’s a 
dern good dog, and they ain’t wuth the salt it 
’ud take to keep ’em from spilin’. I’m goin’ 
to put a stop to it.” 

I regarded him haughtily. “ Please remem¬ 
ber, Mr. Cross — ” 

“ Now, now! Shet up! I ain’t agoin’ to 
leave. I’m goin’ to stay right here. I can see 
you’re a Manheim, and the farm’s yours; but 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


57 


you’re jest a baby what don’t know sic ’em 
about what you’re doin’. Old Nat said you’d 
be bossy and hardheaded, likely; but I prom¬ 
ised him I’d see you through if I could. But 
if them two whiskered cusses toll Shep off again, 
I’ll git my shot gun. Now, you’d better git 
in the house outin this hot sun, or you’ll git 
sunstroke.” 

He turned and trudged off with his halting 
gait, and I went meekly back into the house, 
so squelched that I never thought of re¬ 
plying. 

Paul stormed, and called Mr. Cross “ an in¬ 
terfering old fool but after I thought it over, 
I was entirely in sympathy with him, and so 
thankful he was a man of his word. So Uncle 
Nat had foreseen that I was likely to steer up 
against troubles? Neither had he forgotten 
that the Manheims were hardheaded! 

The silo had to be filled in October, so, as we 
knew things would be messy and uncomfortable 
with a lot of men about, we ran down to the 
city until it should be over. 

We stayed into November and got home just 
before it began to rain. I never saw such 
ridiculous weather: rain, mud and slush, and 
terrific winds blowing. You couldn’t step out, 
and the roads were fearful! We nearly went 
crazy. 


58 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Mr. Arpsbagger, who stopped at the house 
once or twice, said it was likely to be a wet 
winter, but that was fine, for the country 
needed water. It certainly got it. We couldn’t 
stand it, so we escaped from it for Thanksgiving 
and Christmas; but we were so cross that it 
snowed while we were away; neither of us had 
ever seen a snow storm. 

Martha wrote too, that Celia Hilyard, who 
had been away all fall, came home Christmas 
time, and during that week, called on me. 
That was provoking too. None of the neigh¬ 
bor women had bothered their heads about me. 
I had always heard that the country people 
were so friendly, but not one of the neighbor¬ 
hood matrons had darkened our doorway, so 
far. 

Lucy Graham came once, but she struck me 
about like the “ Airydales “ good to look 
at,” and that was all. She giggled a great deal, 
and made eyes at Paul, and told me maybe I 
might “ catch ” Francis Boalt. 

I wasn’t sorry when she went home. Francis 
Boalt and Mr. Carmichael were our most fre¬ 
quent visitors and I suppose every time they 
came, everybody in the country knew it. Well, 
we should worry about it! 

We intended to come home from the city 
directly after Christmas, but there was a most 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


59 


exceptional Art Exhibition and some unusual 
musical shows, that we felt we ought to stay 
for. Although we were farmers, we decided it 
was foolish to lose touch with the world. Added 
to all this, there was Pinky Crawford and 
Jimmy Prague’s wedding. They had come to 
an understanding when they were up at the 
ranch, so we had to stay for that. 

It was February when we, at last got home 
and Mr. Cross had the ranch, except the pas¬ 
tures, of course, all torn up with what he called 
“ spring plowing.” The fields were lovely; 
rich and brown like great breadths of wide 
wale velvet corduroy, for a giant’s coat. It 
seemed that had to be done every winter to 
plant grain for hay. 

Mr. Cross said that he and the odorous hired 
man had done it all. He added that farmers 
had to look out and keep expenses down. I 
commended him and told him that I heartily 
agreed with him. 

After dinner, or supper, as I had to teach 
myself to say, for ranch dinner meant the noon 
meal, we sat down by the fireplace. It was 
cosy and warm inside, but so quiet. Outside, 
it was awfully cold, and so still and dark. No 
lights nor hum of motors, no clang of cars, nor 
tread of busy feet, just dim starlight and a dog 
barking some place. 


60 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Paul went right off to sleep in his chair, for 
we had had rather a strenuous few weeks, but 
I sat there trying to read. 

Martha came in with a pasteboard box, her 
sleeves rolled above her plump elbows. “ You 
look mighty cosy in here,” she said; “ I sup¬ 
pose you’re glad to get home again.” 

“ Oh, surely,” I lied glibly, because I was 
just then traitorously wishing that I had 
yielded to Dustan’s plea to retire in favor of 
the indigent Odd Fellows. 

Martha beamed, and gave me the box full of 
letters. 

I took it listlessly. “ Holiday greetings from 
the shops and trades people,” I said. I picked 
up a handful and began tearing them open. 
They were New Year greetings, all right, and 
each one suggested an early remittance! 

They made me feel queer. I hadn’t ever 
been used to charge accounts, but everyone 
had been so anxious to oblige Nathaniel Man- 
heim’s niece, and it was awfully handy. 

The bills were staggering, but I got out my 
checkbook and wrote a check for every one. 

Martha lingered and said she’d like some 
money, her daughter was ill. 

“ Why, certainly, Martha,” I assured her; 
“ any time you want money, say so.” I wrote 
her a check. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


61 


The next day Mr. Cross said the man wanted 
to quit. His time was so and so, at so much 
per day. And he’d drawn for a pair of shoes, 
overalls, and tobacco to such an amount. 

I wrote a check for an appalling sum just for 
that smelly hired man. I hoped he’d be able 
to buy himself a clean shirt! 

Two days later, a polite note from the bank 
informed me that I had overdrawn my account, 
to such and such an extent. Would I kindly 
call at my earliest convenience and settle? A 
letter came from one of the stores containing my 
own check returned from the bank with “ No 
funds ” stamped across it. And that miserable 
hired man came back roaring to Mr. Cross 
about a “ dam worthless check,” and threat¬ 
ened us with the Labor Commission. 

All this was terribly humiliating to me, and 
Paul was just as amazed as I. 

Mr. Cross soothed the hired man, and I took 
my dilemma to Francis Boalt. 

He was in the tool shed greasing harness, but 
at Mary’s call, he came in washed his hands, 
and was ready for his client. 

His friendly greeting changed into a most 
legal manner when I told him that I had come 
on business. And when I had finished my tale 
of woe, he put on his Family Counselor air, and 
shook his head gravely. He seemed to know 


62 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

all about it, however. In fact, I discovered 
that everyone knew it before I did. 

Francis Boalt said, putting the tips of his 
fingers together, just like a real “ Advisor”: 
“ My dear young lady. I’m not at all sur¬ 
prised; in fact, I — er — well, expected it.” 

“ I don’t see why. I never thought of such 
a thing,” I answered tartly. “ I think the 
bank has made a mistake.” 

He cleared his throat, hesitated, and inti¬ 
mated delicately that we had both spent too 
freely, not to say, recklessly. 

I retorted: “ What’s the use of having a 
thirty thousand dollar ranch if one can’t spend 
a few dollars without pinching them? ” 

He leaned forward in his chair, quite vehe¬ 
mently. “ But, my dear Miss Annette, my 
dear Miss Torrel! A wise business man doesn’t 
encroach on his principal, unless absolutely 
necessary; and that’s what you’ve done. 
When one gets beyond his income, he attacks 
his capital. A conservative business can’t 
figure more than ten per cent, and a farmer not 
that; owing to the unreliability of the elements 
and the perishable nature of his produce.” 

I just looked at him crossly. (Rhetoric 
didn’t pay my bills.) What I wanted was some 
idea of how I could satisfy my creditors. 

But he was coming to this. He went on with 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


63 


a lot of advice, legal and otherwise, and included 
the suggestion that we sell our car. In this way 
we would rid ourselves of an unnecessary ex¬ 
pense, and possibly be able to meet the out¬ 
standing debts. 

“ We can’t get along without a car. All 
farmers have cars,” I protested. 

“ Get a less expensive one, a Ford.” 

A Ford! I just laughed. I could guess 
what Paul would say. 

“ We can get money on the ranch,” I said. 
“ Paul says land is the very best security.” 

He shook his head, and counseled against such 
a move, for a quarter of an hour, but it didn’t 
take. That seemed to me so much more 
sensible than giving up the car. 

I got up finally, and told him goodbye. I 
presume he saw that I was unconvinced by his 
logic, for he followed me out to the gate, still 
talking. 

I got in the car, still unconvinced and drove 
home. Paul agreed with me. 

“ I think you’re right, Puss. I wouldn’t pay 
too much attention to the old fellow. His 
days are about done. I don’t suppose he keeps 
up with new business methods. Of course 
we’ll make out all right. We can get money 
on the ranch, or sell some of those old cows. 
We should worry! ” 


64 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


So I decided, in direct opposition to the ad¬ 
vice of my Family Counselor. I put a mort¬ 
gage on my farm, a small one, of course, that 
could be paid off within the year. 


CHAPTER YII 

MR. CROSS AND ANNETTE DISAGREE 

Well, as Paul said, “ We should worry.” 
Butter fat was high, and the cows were “ pour¬ 
ing out the milk,” to quote Mr. Cross. To be 
sure, we were sorry that we had made such a 
mistake, but then I told Paul of a consoling 
remark made by some wise man: “ Show me a 
man who hasn’t made a mistake, and I’ll show 
you one who hasn’t done anything more.” We 
agreed that we’d made a good start toward 
success! 

Bound to retrieve matters, we settled right 
down to farming, so I talked with some of the 
neighbors, who hitherto had acted rather 
skeptical. Now I found them kindly disposed, 
and full of good advice. 

I thought we ought to do something more 
than milk cows, because we wanted to make 
all the money we could, as soon as possible, 
and catch up. 

Mr. Arpsbagger, who had a chicken ranch, 
advised chickens. He told me how much he 
paid out and took in, and it seemed pretty 
good. I thought seriously of doing it until I 


66 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

talked with Mr. Cattman who said hogs were 
the quickest and easiest money makers. He 
offered to sell me a good start of pure bred 
Duroc-Jerseys. 

Mr. Arpsbagger didn’t agree with his idea 
He said: 

“ Because Cattman’s a Farm Bureau man, he 
thinks he knows it all. I’ll tell you, Miss Tor- 
rel, you jest farm as I do, and don’t join no 
Farm Bureaus, and you’ll get along.” 

Mr. Forest advised prunes, somebody else 
said sheep, and another, berries. I became 
confused, but the reference to the Farm Bureau 
stuck in my mind. I’d heard Francis Boalt 
and Mr. Carmichael talking about it. They 
both approved, and from what they said, it 
seemed a good thing with its Farm Advisor 
ready to give you all kinds of information. 
Think of getting expert legal advice a whole 
year for two and one half dollars! 

At Mr. Cattman’s invitation we attended the 
meeting one night. Most of the farmer folk 
were there, nice middleaged people, most of 
them. The Farm Advisor, a tall, lean man with 
a determined chin, talked about hogs a great 
deal, and I expect that was really what decided 
me to get hogs, as he said they went fine with 
cows, because they could eat the milk that 
was left over. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


67 


Mr. Cross was awfully against hogs. He 
said they would root up all the pastures and 
be all over the ranch, “because nobody couldn't 
keep a damn hog no place," and he said besides, 
the calves took most of the milk, and what was 
left, the cows drank. 

I said: “ Well, Mr. Cross, I call that down¬ 
right silly. They had just as well drink water." 

I went to see Mr. Cattman and looked over 
his hogs. They were certainly enormous things 
of a sort of burnt sienna color. They scared 
me to death, for they insisted on sticking their 
noses right on me. Mr. Cattman said it was 
because they were so gentle. 

We talked business, and he told me a lot that 
I didn't know. He said a sow would farrow 
twice a year, with ten or twelve pigs each time. 
He really had known of their having twenty- 
five at once. Think of it, a possible fifty pigs 
in one year! 

It looked propitious, so I decided on ten sows 
at thirty dollars apiece, to begin with, and one 
big hog, to insure continuity of species, at fifty 
dollars. 

I made a quick mental calculation: Five 
hundred pigs yearly (of course there was no 
way of knowing, but it was only fair to split 
fifty-fifty on them; two hundred and fifty 
sows and two hundred and fifty boars — they 


68 SOIL, THE MASTER 

had to be one or the other). I counted up: 
thirty times two hundred and fifty equals 
seventy-five hundred dollars for sows, and 
fifty times two hundred and fifty! It fairly 
took my breath away. All in one year! I felt 
sorry for poor old Uncle Nat who had farmed 
sixty odd years with such meager results. If 
he had only known about Duroc-Jersey hogs! 

We got the creatures home, and I selected 
the largest pasture for them. Mr. Cross 
grumbled and said if I had bought four sows it 
would have been too many, and the place would 
be lousy with pigs in no time. 

“ You’ll find out,” he said darkly. 

I didn’t risk my dignity arguing with him. 
I just smiled and thought to myself — “ You’ll 
find out, Mr. Cross.” 

While we waited for the pigs, we got a few 
sheep, goats, turkeys, guineas, and Chinese 
pheasants, and some cunning little red and 
yellow bantams. They looked so cute darting 
in and out among the speckled hens that were 
already on the ranch. I must say that Mr. 
Cross acted ridiculous at every new thing we 
got. He said nobody would be able to live on 
the ranch if we got any more trash. But I 
didn’t let it worry me any. 

Paul learned to milk, and I conquered my 
fear of the creatures, so that I was able to pet 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


69 


Dolly, the Imported Ayrshire that had been 
taught to push one’s hat off with her nose. She 
really was a darling old cow of the most impec¬ 
cable lineage. Uncle Nat had imported her 
from Canada, and her calves always sold for 
big money, Mr. Cross said. 

Mr. Cross taught Paul to plow, and I learned 
how to set chicken hens, when spring came. It 
was a lovely season although it stopped raining 
by the last of March. The farmers all com¬ 
plained on account of the crops, but I was glad. 
I detest rain; it makes everything so nasty and 
wet; besides that, we certainly had had enough 
rain to last for years to come. 

April was lovely with all the green things 
coming out. We did enjoy it. Paul and I 
lived out of doors. I painted and sketched; 
and he rode about, getting tanned and healthy 
looking. Evidently out-of-door’s life was what 
he needed. 

Our joy was short lived, however, for it be¬ 
gan raining again in May as soon as the hay 
was all down. The men began hauling in the 
afternoon, and that night it just poured . 
Everything was too wet to think of the next 
day. It remained cloudy all morning and 
we had a terrific thunder storm in the eve¬ 
ning. 

Two of the men, Bill and Charlie Graham 


70 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


went home; but the other four stayed and we 
had to feed them. I suppose they weren’t to 
blame; they hadn’t any place to go. But it 
was a nuisance, just the same. 

After three days of clouds and rain, the sun 
came out bright and hot, and dried the top of 
the hay. Mr. Cross had the men turn it all 
over, and as soon as it was about dry, the rain 
came again and drenched it. 

This happened four times during fourteen 
days. Poor old Mr. Cross wandered discon¬ 
solately about studying the sky and the barome¬ 
ter, and developed such a grouch it was unsafe 
to speak to him. I was awfully irritated, too, 
for it was so wet I couldn’t get out, but I told 
him not to worry; it would surely clear off some 
time. I didn’t want him to think anyone 
blamed him, poor old man! 

And Martha got so cranky, for the first time 
since she’d been with us, for she had to cook 
three big meals every day for those idle men. 

“ I don’t mind, Miss Annette, when they’re 
working,” she complained; “ but just to have 
’em lay around and eat! Where do you suppose 
they put it all, anyhow? ” 

“ I’ve wonderedt oo, Martha,” I sympathized, 
for like her, I wasn’t accustomed to the vora¬ 
cious appetites of working men. “ I think 
they must be lineal descendents from Loki, who 


SOIL, THE MASTER 71 

not only ate the food, but consumed the trough 
as well.” 

This classical allusion to the old Norse god 
tickled Martha. Thereafter she alluded to the 
hired men as “ old Looky’s sons,” adding, 
“ And how they do take after their pa! ” 

It finally cleared up, after the hay was all 
spoiled. The farmers grumbled and grouched; 
they just couldn’t get over it. It meant hun¬ 
dreds of dollars gone; and it did seem that it 
might as well have rained in April. The 
weather is certainly an awful trial to farmers! 
If there was only some way of controlling it; 
or dispensing with it altogether, they’d be a 
long way ahead. 

All this time I hadn’t forgotten my pigs, and 
I could hardly wait for the first sow to farrow. 
She was about as big as Dolly. Wouldn’t she 
look cute with twenty-five pigs? 

After one terribly wet and stormy night Mr. 
Cross came in to tell me that the pigs had come. 

Paul and I rushed out to the pen, and there 
the old sow lay like a big red granite boulder, 
with the little red mites wriggling about her. 

I counted them. Seven! Was that allf 

My disappointment swept away my sense. 
I wailed: 

“ Oh, shake her! Maybe she’s got some 
more! ” 


72 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

Paul gave me an amazed look, and began to 
laugh in the rudest manner possible, doubling 
up after the style of a hired man. 

Mr. Cross pursed out his lips and said, 
“ Well — I’ll tell you: If them two little ones 
ain’t took care of right away, they're goin’ to 
die.” 

He climbed over the fence and picked them 
up and handed them to me. 

Choking back my tears, I huddled the frail 
little creatures in my arms. In the house, after 
Martha’s instruction for new born things, I 
wrapped them in hot flannel and poured warm 
milk down them. I kept this up all morning at 
intervals, but they didn’t react very strongly. 

While I was nursing my pigs that afternoon, 
Celia Hilyard came. She rode a high-stepping 
chestnut thoroughbred, and looked as if she 
had just ridden out of an old hunting print. 

She was interested as could be in the pigs 
and somehow, she made me feel, for the first 
time, the pathos of the helpless little things. 
She touched them so tenderly with her soft 
white hands, and her sweet face was so full of 
gentle solicitude. 

After we got through feeding the pigs, we 
had a jolly good time talking about things, 
music and art and books and theaters (nothing 
about farming). She sang a cunning little 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


73 


thing or two from one of the latest musical 
shows, in such a feeling voice. Paul and I 
hadn’t had such a treat for months. Paul had 
wandered in, not knowing who was there, and 
of course, he didn’t wander out again until 
Celia got ready to go. Then he got his horse 
and rode home with her. 

I watched them down the road. They looked 
awfully well together, riding side by side, right 
into the bright sunset. A dim, fanciful plan 
came into my mind, just as if I had been Paul’s 
mother. Why not? With a happy feeling 
around my heart I went in to look at my pigs. 

They were both dead. 


CHAPTER VIII 

THINGS LOOK BRIGHT FOR THE 
INDIGENT O.F.’S 

After that Celia came often. The Hilyards 
invited us there. The father and mother were 
very gracious and friendly. We grew to be 
good friends. Once I had them all to dinner 
when we were free of hired men. 

Paul and Celia went around together a lot, 
for there were balls and dances in the towns, 
and very good shows at Redlands, sometimes. 
Often we made up a party including Mr. Car¬ 
michael or Francis Boalt, or both, or we’d all 
meet at one of the three houses. So we had 
some social life. We all enjoyed our times at 
the Hilyards most, I think, for Celia was such 
a darling, and the Hilyards knew how to do 
nice things for young people. 

The summer was fearfully hot, yet we got 
through it alive, until August when Celia had 
to go back to Berkeley for her Senior year. 

We missed her terribly, and I was glad to see 
even Lucy Graham with her simple pansy face, 
come tripping in one day. I must confess I 
was glad when she left too, for when one got 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


75 


past that flower face, — there was nothing. I 
suppose the girl was lonely over there in that 
bare canyon where she lived with no one except 
her father and brothers. 

Out of pure charity, I insisted on her coming 
again, which she did quite often, and one Octo¬ 
ber evening, when a quick, pouring rain came 
up, Paul took her home in the car. 

Through the fall months there was the same 
harvest; getting in the late hay crop, potatoes, 
corn, apples, pumpkins, filling the silo, and 
hauling wood for winter. I told Paul we were 
a little like ants. 

It seemed so queer to do all that in the sum¬ 
mer time in preparation for winter. For the 
same reason Martha had worked all summer at 
putting up jars and jars of fruit, jellies, pre¬ 
serves, pickles, chow-chow and vegetables. I’d 
helped her do this, and I knew what hard, hot 
work it was. But it had to be done. 

The rains “ set in ” early, as the country 
people said. November was the wildest, storm¬ 
iest month. There were a great many Flu 
cases, but we escaped until after Thanksgiving, 
when Mr. Cross developed a mild case. 

Martha dosed him, and I wanted to send for 
a doctor; but he said he wasn’t going to have 
any of those “ quack doctors ” fussing over 
him; he’d “ wear it out.” 


76 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Saturday night he felt rather badly and took 
a bottle of Martha's home-made cough medi¬ 
cine to bed with him. 

Sunday morning Martha came into my 
room before I was up. The whiteness of her 
chubby face startled me, but less than her 
news. Mr. Cross had died in the night, pre¬ 
sumably of heart failure caused by the Flu. 

I sat up, not being able to grasp it. “ Martha, 
it isn't possible! " 

“ Yes, it is, Miss Annette," assured Martha 
with solemn sincerity. “ I saw the milk 
buckets still in the dairy house so I went out 
to see how he was. They’s no doubt of it, 
child. I went in and touched him." 

I got right up and telephoned to the Coroner, 
and then we tried to eat the breakfast Martha 
prepared, but we were too upset. Paul had 
been to a dance the night before and didn't get 
in until morning, so he wasn’t up. I let him 
sleep; there wasn’t anything he could do. 

While Martha was clearing the table, all of 
a sudden, I remembered the cows. Hitherto I 
had looked at the milking just as we regard the 
engineer's job on the train; it’s done, and that's 
all there is to it. But now I realized what a 
terrible thing it would be if the engineer dropped 
dead at his post. 

Martha thought about the cows at the same 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


77 


time. We turned to each other with almost 
the same words. “ Who’s going to milk the 
cows? ” 

Martha thought of Paul first. “ Can’t Mr. 
Paul do it? ” she asked. 

I went into Paul’s room and waked him. 

He grunted fretfully, turned over and rooted 
his nose into the pillow.” 

“ But Paul, you must wake up, and get up.” 

At my insistance he swore, half awake, but I 
shook him and made him understand. 

He sat up then, and opened his eyes. He 
was about all in, I could see. He looked so 
terribly white and tired I was alarmed for fear 
he might be coming down with the dread dis¬ 
ease. But there were the cows! 

“ Paul, those cows have to be milked.” 

“ Aw, let ’em go ’til night.” He flung him¬ 
self back on the pillow, and dropped asleep. 

I knew he ought to sleep. I went back to 
Martha. “ I can’t get him up,” I said. “ He’s 
just simply all in. I don’t know what to do.” 

Martha walked around the kitchen setting 
things to rights. She washed her dish rag and 
emptied the water, her pudgy face full of 
thought, and finally she said: 

“ I can milk, Miss Annette.” 

“ Oh, can you, Martha? It really isn’t much 
of a job; but it has to be done. I’ll help you.” 


78 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

I had watched Mr. Cross milk Dolly once, 
and I knew you didn’t hang a tin cup on the 
cow’s horn and pump her tail, as Dustan had 
tried to make me believe. 

“ I haven’t milked for a long time,” said 
Martha rather doubtfully. “ But when I lived 
on the ranch with my first husband, I had to 
milk.” 

“ I think one doesn’t forget how,” I said 
hopefully. 

We got our coats and rubbers, and Martha 
collected the cans and buckets. The rain was 
beginning to fall from the bleak December sky 
as we started. It was terribly muddy and 
rivulets of rain ran across the path. 

We sloshed through them until we reached 
the cow barn. I opened the door. Every¬ 
thing looked so strange with the cows all in 
their stanchions, moving restlessly about, for it 
was long past their regular milking hour. 

I can’t endure smells, and it was awfully 
smelly. Delicacy forbids any description of 
things. The early morning aspect of a twenty 
chamber cow hotel is not a pretty sight. I had 
never been in the barn before except when it 
was clean and empty, so I hung back, I confess. 

But Martha advanced with her usual business 
like way, picked up a small stool by the wall, 
and boldly entered the first stall. At the same 


SOIL, THE MASTER 79 

time she said, “ So, Boss,” in a soothing tone, 
and “ Hist! ” 

I forced my shaking knees forward, and fol¬ 
lowed Martha’s example. 

I don’t know what the cow thought. She 
gave me one wild look, and leaped up into the 
manger, kicking and bawling like an insane 
thing. Martha’s cow gave an awful jump and 
fell down, on the floor, scrambled around and 
bawled, and all the rest began plunging and 
bellowing as if a flock of bears were after them. 
Pandemonium is a weak word! 

I ran like a scared rabbit, clear to the door, 
and Martha got out of the stall precipitately; 
the cow was taking all the room. 

“ Goodness, Martha! ” I chattered; “ What 
in the world is the matter with them? ” Martha 
looked rather white and scared too, although 
her voice was quite calm as she answered, 

“ They’re afraid of us, I expect. They’ve 
never been milked by a woman. I don’t be¬ 
lieve we can do anything. You’ll have to get 
Mr. Paul up.” 

They had quieted down, some, by this time, 
but they still rolled their wild eyes in our direc¬ 
tion, and now and then one emitted a bawl 
that struck terror to the very depths of my being. 
I didn’t think we could do anything either, and 
I didn’t have any more courage to try. 


80 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Crestfallen, we sloshed back through the 
rain. At the barnyard gate we met Mr. Car¬ 
michael on horseback, all dolled up in a yellow 
rain hat and slicker, and rubber boots. 

His hat was strapped under his chin, but he 
touched the brim. 

“ Good morning, Miss Torrel. I have just 
heard the sad news. Mr. Boalt thought of 
your cows, and I came over to see if I could 
help about milking them, you know.” 

I felt the blood rush to my face in sheer sur¬ 
prise and gratitude. 

“ It’s awfully kind of you both. I should 
say you might help. Martha and I have been 
trying to milk, but we only succeeded in scaring 
them to death.” 

Mr. Carmichael’s shocked expression was 
wholly on my account I know. He dismounted, 
tied his horse, and proceeded toward the barn. 
We went back to the house, and I made Paul 
get up and go out there. 

Everything was very disturbing until after 
poor old Mr. Cross was laid away. The neigh¬ 
bors were all wonderfully kind. For sympathy 
and help in time of trouble, I certainly recom¬ 
mend the farming folk. They had all known 
Mr. Cross for a long time, and everybody 
wanted to do something. Since he had been 
on the ranch so long, we had the funeral from 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


81 


our house just as if he were one of the family. 
It was, naturally, a great relief when it was 
over, though we couldn’t help but feel sorry 
about the old man, he had been so good and 
faithful. 

But though that part of it was over, the cow 
business wasn’t settled. It humiliated me so 
much, because I had to depend on the neigh¬ 
bors twice a day to get those cows milked. 
Though Paul did what he could, it was really a 
big job, as we found out. I decided that I 
would make the acquaintance of my cows and 
be more independent in the future. 

Mr. Arpsbagger telephoned next day that he 
had picked up a milker for me in town. Should 
he bring him out? 

I said: “ Yes, oh yes! ” He came out later 
with an enormous red faced Swede who said he 
“ bane a dairyman in the ole country.” 

He wanted twice as much as I had paid Mr. 
Cross, but I will say he “ bane ” a good man 
on the job. Mr. Cross wasn’t a dairyman. 
He was just a faithful old man who had worked 
for Uncle Nat for years, and had never found 
out how much he was worth. The younger 
generation never make that mistake. 

As time went on, I began to realize more and 
more, what an incalculable loss the old man 
was to me. While Ole’s work was entirely 


82 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

satisfactory, the cows were sleek, and the 
milk flow abundant, and the barns clean and 
airy; it ended there, where it began — 
with the cows. It was perfectly all right 
in his case, but with Mr. Cross things were 
different. 

He knew every nook and corner of the 
ranch, every weak spot in the fences, the dispo¬ 
sition of the farm machinery. He knew when 
to begin plowing and planting; when the pas¬ 
tures were thirsty, and the right turn of the 
bloom to mow the hay. He saw to everything. 
In reality he was my Manager, though neither 
of us ever thought of it. And now I grieved to 
think at what a meager wage! 

But it was now up to me. To Ole’s great 
disgust, I insisted on haunting the barn with a 
milk pail until the cows all grew convinced that 
a skirt was not a menace. I think Ole felt that 
the menace was to him, for he told Paul, 
“ Barns no business for vomans. Vomans 
ought to stay in cook house.” It didn’t matter. 
With or without Ole’s permission, I learned to 
milk. 

I learned a number of other things also as I 
plodded along at my job, with Francis Boalt’s 
helpful advice. Paul didn’t help much; he 
couldn’t get over the idea that “ It was no 
trick to farm.” I couldn’t get him to buckle 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


83 


down to the serious aspect of the business. He 
did only the things he wanted to do. He liked 
to do the running around, errands to town and 
such. Of course that was a help; but he was 
awfully careless about money. 

However, we got along very well, and I felt 
quite comfortable, until Ole got up from the 
dinner table one day, and announced without 
preface: “ Mek my monie. I bane go vay.” 

“ Go away? ” I ejaculated. “ Where are you 
going? ” 

“ I go vay. I kvit. Mek my monie.” 

He stood there, a big, awkward hulk, looking 
like an obstinate pig. 

“ Why, you can’t quit. Who’s going to milk 
those cows? ” I demanded indignantly. 

He shook his tow-colored head. “I no 
know. I kvit.” 

“ What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you 
satisfied? ” 

“ I bane like awright. I’m troo.” 

“ But Ole,” I protested with far more pa¬ 
tience than I felt; “ I can’t think why you want 
to quit.” 

“ I git yob to mans. I ain’t like to vork to 
vomans,” he blurted out. 

“ Oh, nonsense! ” I couldn’t keep the irrita¬ 
tion out of my voice, but it didn’t affect Ole 
any, for or against; he wanted to go, and 


84 SOIL, THE MASTER 

reiterated it persistently. So I wrote out his 
check. 

As he took it, his ugly face turned brick red. 

“ So long, Lady,” he said. 

“ Goodbye, Ole,” I said cheerfully. “ Good 
luck to you.” Somehow, though I was par¬ 
ticularly annoyed at his going, I felt a little 
sorry for him. I couldn’t have told why, yet 
he looked so like a big, awkward dog that no¬ 
body wanted around. 

He didn’t look at me. Getting his blankets, 
he trudged down the road leaning under the 
heavy roll. 

I went back into the dining room. The other 
men had gone out, even Paul. Martha was 
in there stacking piles of plates. “ He ought 
to be kicked,” she said viciously. 

I began picking up knives and forks in 
silence. I felt a little that way too, for there 
were those twenty milk factories staring me in 
the face; every cog turning, every ounce of 
steam working for the usual daily output. I 
wished there was some way of shutting off the 
power in an emergency, but there wasn’t; 
they had to be milked. 

Paul and I spent the afternoon in town scour¬ 
ing the place for a milker, but nobody wanted 
to milk. We came home and attacked the 
problem ourselves. It was eleven o’clock at 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


85 


night when we finished the separating, and 
washed up. I was never so tired in my life. 
My hands were all swollen, and my knees ached 
so that they almost refused to carry me to bed. 
We had to do it again in the morning. When 
we finished, we ate our dinner and drove to 
Redlands, twenty miles distant. There we got 
a smiling-faced Swiss from the Employment 
Agency, who agreed to take over the job at an 
increase on Ole’s wages. But I couldn’t help 
it; we had to have a milker. 


CHAPTER IX 

ANNETTE DIGS INTO UNFAMILIAR STRATA 

Jan, the Swiss was just as competent as Ole, 
much better to look at, with his smiling blue 
eyes and tight curled hair, and his friendly 
manner was much more pleasant to deal with 
than was Ole and his stolid surliness. 

Ole’s precipitate departure and the plight in 
which it plunged us, woke me up to a fact of 
which I had hitherto been unaware. The men 
who worked for me were individuals, with 
thoughts, emotions and characteristics to be 
considered. 

I had learned a great many things in the past 
few months as the ranch activities succeeded 
each other according to the seasons, and I 
realized that, in a measure, I was growing into 
the life. My urban life faded into the back¬ 
ground. The soil is so dominant; its demands 
so insistent! It is like an egotistic personality 
that will not be ignored. Unconsciously I 
yielded to its superior force. And in nothing 
did it change me more than in my attitude of 
mind toward these rough men with whom I 
was forced into daily contact. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


87 


Daily I mixed with “ men with their collars 
off,” yes, as it were, their shirts! for the farmer 
is beyond the pale of convention. He cannot 
pick or choose, — ask for references. His hay 
is burning up in the shock, his potatoes rotting 
in the earth, his cornfields overwhelmed with 
weeds; he must have men to handle a hoe or 
stand up under a pitchfork. 

Men from the higher walks of life, unless 
thrown out from the conventional paths, will 
not work on a farm. It is men whom neces¬ 
sity, not choice, sends out into the teeming fields 
to battle with the soil. 

So it was that young, brawny men, strong 
with the lust of life, fresh from the hobo camp, 
the gambling hall, the saloon; old, weary men, 
pushed out from these places, their money gone, 
sat at my table and we met on the same level — 
the level of toil. 

And the more because of this uncultured 
element into which I was thrown, did I hold on 
to the things that had been a part of my old 
life. I intended to go back to it. I didn’t 
want to forget all the niceties of culture. Most 
of the country women used red tablecloths or 
oilcloths on their tables, and napkins were 
unknown except for company. 

But I kept my white linen cloths, and had 
always a flower on my table. I tried the men 


88 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


with napkins, but they almost invariably laid 
them respectfully to one side, for fear of getting 
them soiled. If they laughed at my efforts at 
“ keeping up ” I never knew it. 

I always dressed with an eye to scrupulous 
neatness and taste, never appearing before 
these men except in meticulous order. It 
wasn’t always easy, for being close to the soil 
means its grimy stamp upon you. 

The country people criticized my invariable 
dressed up appearance. The farm women wore 
dark, serviceable prints and ginghams to save 
washing, no matter how high the mercury, and 
often old and shapeless shoes. Hence my 
sprigged lawns and white shoes made a ques¬ 
tion of my intelligence and my efficiency. 
However, I didn’t let it bother me, nor change 
my custom; it being simply a matter of per¬ 
sonal taste, it harmed none, and should not 
have disturbed anyone. Though my code of 
“ Vision ” had had a number of terrible jolts, 
it was still alive. Such things as pertained to 
the consideration of others, I endeavored to 
fall in along with the “ Romans;” thus I sat at 
table with the men. It being the custom that 
the farmer must eat with his men, it was not 
for me to antagonize my help by ignoring the 
ancient rite. 

So I sat with my men, poured their tea, 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


89 


listened to their talk, parried their compli¬ 
ments, and helped them, I am sure, to remem¬ 
ber their mothers' “ raisin'." Also I did not 
shrink from washing the tablecloths, black 
streaked from their grimy elbows. 

We had all kinds of men; American, English, 
French, German and men of dark blood; 
men whose talk was often trite, yet as often, 
thrilling — tales of other lands and other lives; 
of mines and logging camps; of factories and 
fisheries; of northern gold fields and southern 
plantations; of eastern villages to the great 
stock ranches of the middle west. 

I was carried from the Yukon to New Orleans; 
from the Cascades to the Blue Mountains; 
around Cape Horn; across the Isthmus and 
through the Canal; down the Mississippi and 
across the Gulf to Cuba and Jamaica; overseas 
to France, Belgium, Britain and Germany; to 
Japan, Australia and India, by the glib tongues 
of these men whose homes were where they 
hung their hats. 

I attended Bull fights in Mexico; trekked 
across the great American Desert; battled with 
wounded bear in the Rockies, and experienced 
a shipwreck off the Florida Keys. 

“ Sure," said Irish Pat, adding color to his 
tale by his rich brogue; “ the waves was 
washin' over the sides, the old tub wallowin' 


90 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

like a sow in a puddle. An’ some av the men 
was cursin’, and some was cryin’, an’ some was 
prayin’. An’ wan poor divil was a-thryin’ to 
throw hisself over the side. ...” 

“ Didn’t anyone try to stop him? ” I asked. 

“ Ah, no,” said Pat tolerantly. “ Iverybody 
let iverybody ilse do pretty much as he plazed.” 
Pat passed up his cup with a smile. “ Another 
drop, if you will kindly, Lady.” 

I listened to these tales with the avidity of a 
child swallowing fairy tales. My life had been 
bounded by four apartment walls where win¬ 
dows opened on paved streets; but these men, 
swinging along the open Highway, had drunk 
deep of Adventure’s beaded cup. 

But the talk was not all of thrilling adventure. 
Often it was of fights and brawls in saloon and 
camp, wherever rough men congregate; of 
sharp card games and ways of showing the 
“ Boss ” that he could not override the work¬ 
ingman’s independence. And always this talk 
showed opposition to anyone in control, con¬ 
tempt for convention and disdain for the rights 
of the man who paid for having his work done. 

This wearied me, savoring, as it did, of out¬ 
lawry and treason, which is Adventure’s licen¬ 
tious side. I aimed by my presence only to 
temper such talk, not subdue it. 

Yet sometimes these struggles between primi- 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


91 


tive men, interested me. There was one which 
seemed to me worthy of an epic. I don’t know 
what the story teller saw in it; just brute 
ferocity perhaps, but I saw more. The inten¬ 
sity of passion which makes men fight unto 
death, raises the struggle to a dignity above a 
barroom brawl. 

This was of two Indians (civilized, not sav¬ 
ages) filled with the “ Firewater ” of civiliza¬ 
tion, who rode down the street like fighting 
Centaurs clasped in a close embrace, covered 
with blood from ever increasing wounds, each 
with a long, savage knife trying to let death in 
on the other’s life; until one fell from his saddle, 
stabbed to death. The other holding his vic¬ 
tory but a few hours, succumbed to his wounds. 
So both were victors; both were vanquished. 
Each took the other’s life and gave his own in 
payment. 

This was what I found hard to understand: 
the ferocity of these primitive passions. 

I tried to picture this scene, and drew many 
inadequate sketches, only I drew savages. I 
couldn’t visualize men of civilized life, fighting 
and killing each other like wild beasts. 

Along with these tales, in other ways my 
education progressed. My fastidious nose be¬ 
came inured to the smell of stale tobacco mixed 
with the foul odorjof sweat-stained clothing. 


92 SOIL, THE MASTER 

(The man of the fields does not perspire, he 
sweats as his horses do. He brings the proof of 
it to the table three times a day.) There is 
sweat in summer and in winter, boots soaked 
with the dung-mixed mud from barns and 
corrals. 

But these are only small details of the ranch¬ 
man’s life. The real farmer doesn’t notice 
them. The hard farmer composition cannot be 
impressed by trifles such as these; if it were he 
could not be a tiller of the soil. 

I became familiar with strange and violent 
oaths until they no longer shocked me. Men 
did not often swear in my presence; but they 
shrieked vile epithets at the horses, dogs, ma¬ 
chinery and used them in conversation among 
themselves. I heard much of it, but my sensi¬ 
bilities became calloused. This, too, was a 
part of my heritage, for oaths grow in the soil 
as they float on the sea. 

As these various experiences revealed them¬ 
selves to me, I came to understand that to the 
farmer falls the task of building and maintain¬ 
ing the foundation of the economic world; 
and always at the foundation, there is grime 
and toil. For that tremendous sky scraper 
some one must dig to bed rock, and set the 
foundation strong enough to bear the weight 
and balance of the structure. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


93 


This falls to the farmer because he has 
leagued himself with the soil, and it holds him 
close to the ground with his shovel and hoe. 

Again, there was the social side of these men 
who drifted across my life. My experiences 
with some were amusing, some, tragic, some, 
merely annoying, and some, I would not relate 
because the men themselves were fine and true, 
though something had set them on the path of 
the wanderer, and others in whom the beast 
was uppermost. 

Many times I received letters or postcards 
from men who had worked for me a short time 
and then drifted on. Often I was hard put to 
place the writer. Was it the sailor we called 
Jack, or that Englishman who left on a drunken 
spree and didn’t even return for his pay check? 
Or the Irishman who told Paul that I was the 
only woman for whom he’d ever “ cared a 
damn.” He wished he’d lived a decent life. 
He was going to from now on, but what chance 
for a poor hobo like him? 

We never knew whether or not he kept his 
resolution, probably not; yet I liked to think 
that the few weeks of quiet, orderly life for 
these adventurers, self-exiled from convention, 
would tally for them somehow in the great 
accounting at the last. 

From these experiences I learned to treat all 


94 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

men with the kind indulgence which one shows 
towards a friendly dog, or the very aged whose 
infirmity commands respect. This manner, 
flawless in itself, was the result of careful study 
on my part; and I found it almost always in¬ 
sured loyalty, tempered the humiliation of 
being bossed by a woman, and had a tendency 
to squelch any sort of emotion. 

Paul did not get much from them. They did 
not like him, possibly because he did not try 
to command their respect. He argued and 
quarreled with them with the unreasoning heat 
of immaturity. Their talk bored him; their 
strength and working skill annoyed him. 
Superior as he felt himself to be, these men 
from far places dwarfed him, and he had nothing 
to offer in return. All his life had been spent 
in San Francisco, and they knew the young 
Bay City better than he, besides the older 
cities New York/New Orleans, London, Paris, 
Berlin and Tokio. And he was just a lad with 
no experience of life to match theirs. 

For me, forced to recognize the individuality 
of these men, the next step was a natural 
sequence — there were among them possible 
companions, perhaps friends. 

I wanted companions, friends. The life was 
not only hard with its endless duties, but in¬ 
conceivably lonely, especially after Martha 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


95 


went. Money matters pressed hard, and her 
monthly wage became a decided tax. On the 
farm the first place to begin economizing is in 
the house. The soil requires men and ma¬ 
chinery, but the farm house is a poor creature 
of various makeshifts subject to the demands 
of the Master. 

Celia was away traveling with her family. 
Lucy Graham had ceased coming, for which I 
was not sorry. Her silliness annoyed me. 
Yet I should have been more relieved if I had 
not known that Paul went there. She could 
not attract Paul seriously I knew, but he was 
gone a great deal, and I was alone much of the 
time. So when Dick Patten came he seemed 
a real gift of the gods. 

Paul brought him home one forenoon to help 
with the hay, and before dinner was over, I 
realized he was no ordinary hired man. He 
had certainly dropped from some higher plane 
into my service. That it pleased him I could 
see the minute he stepped into the dining 
room, with an air of gentlemanly assurance 
that Dustan himself could not have surpassed. 

He took in everything at once: the cool, 
tasteful room, the white linen and flowers, and 
me in a fresh blue lawn, entering that moment 
with a huge platter of smoking steak. 

I surprised him most, I think, for all during 


96 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

the meal, he kept turning his prominent blue 
eyes in my direction. He was handsome and 
very blonde, but there were lines on his face 
that might mean ill health, mental worries or 
dissipation. I couldn’t tell. I liked his looks, 
yet when I noticed his white, well kept hands, 
I was doubtful about his ability in the field. 

But here I was mistaken. Paul’s report, and 
the talk of the other men, and his own blistered 
hands at nightfall proved him as old Gene 
said, “ a workin’ fool.” 

He lingered in the dining room after supper 
and asked me for a piece of cloth for a bandage. 

“ I’m afraid,” he said: “ I went at it a little 
strong at first. I’ve been out of work for some 
time.” He watched my face as he spoke, and 
spread out his blistered hands. 

I shivered. They were almost raw. 

“ You had better lay off tomorrow,” I said. 
“ You can’t work with such hands as those.” 

“ You think I couldn’t earn my money? ” 
He laughed and I felt my color rise under his 
glance. 

“ I’m afraid not.” 

I got some old linen and bound up his hands, 
as I often did for the men in cases of cuts or 
bruises and advised him to get some gloves. 

He thanked me, laughed at the idea of gloves, 
and went out. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 97 

He laid off the one day, but the next day he 
was on the job vigorously. 

Paul took quite a fancy to him, and invited 
him into the house of evenings. He and Paul 
hit off splendidly for he was musical, and played 
the piano brilliantly in accompaniment to Paul’s 
violin. I discovered that he knew a lot about 
art, and could draw and sketch cleverly. One 
day he let fall in a familiar way the name of 
one of San Francisco’s most noted artists. I 
saw by his face that he regretted that. 

Afterward he was very discreet in his talk, 
and though Paul and I wondered a lot about 
him, we didn’t find out anything more definite 
about who he was, or why he was tramping over 
the country like a common working man. 

But he was a real godsend to us, and to me 
especially, it was wonderful to have someone 
who would talk of the things I was interested 
in, besides farming. I admit I took some pains 
to show him I hadn’t always been a red handed 
farmerette. 

He had worked about two weeks, and one 
evening he came to the well to fill the water 
jug, for the men in the field. I was standing 
there peeling apples at a table, because it was 
so much cooler outside than in the house. 

We talked while he filled his jug and I peeled 
and cored my apples with a long, slender knife 


98 SOIL, THE MASTER 

that would dig out the cores without splitting 
the apple. 

His jug filled, he asked me for an apple, and 
came past me to get it out of the pan. As he 
did so, he put his arm around me and stooped 
to kiss me. 

Perfectly amazed, with a startled exclama¬ 
tion, I threw up my hand to ward him off. 

I knew that I struck him, but I wasn’t pre¬ 
pared for his yell of pain, and the way he swore 
as he released me and leaped back. 

I swung around toward him. His face was 
all twisted with agony, and his hand was 
pressed tightly over his right eye. 

“ You’ve put my eye out! ” he said furiously. 

Then I remembered the pointed knife which 
I still held. I stood staring at him, sick all 
over with a deathly sickness that tied my 
tongue. To be sure, he had no business to 
touch me, but what was that compared with 
the loss of a man’s eye? At last I managed to 
say: 

“ Let me see. Take your hand down! ” 

He did so, with a groan. 

My heart pounded against my ribs. I took 
a deep breath to calm it. Instead of a gashed 
eyeball, I saw where the knife point had pene¬ 
trated the lower lid just beneath the edge. A 
drop of blood oozed out of the cut. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


99 


I could have thrown my arms about his neck 
in pure relief, though cold chills still ran up my 
spine. Yet, since the eye was uninjured, it 
wasn’t necessary that he should know how I 
felt. 

“ It’s not out,” I remarked placidly, though 
my heart still hammered. I resumed my apple 
job. 

He wouldn’t believe me until he went to the 
looking glass which hung on the wall, and 
assured himself. 

He came back as mad as if the eye was out, 
his handsome face distorted with sullen anger. 

“ You certainly have a nice disposition! ” he 
sneered. “ How would you have felt if you had 
put out my eye? ” 

I glanced up, and assured him I didn’t see 
why I should have any particular feeling in 
the matter; if he considered his eye of any 
especial value, he should be careful not to take 
it into dangerous places. 

His exasperated look was very funny, but I 
didn’t laugh. 

He said that I was a cat, and I retorted in 
that case, I might be expected to use my claws. 

Again his concentrated glare was deadly, but 
he sulkily picked up his jug and marched away 
without saying any more. 

My callous behavior shocked him much, I 


100 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


could see, and I supposed I had effectually 
erased all the good impression that I had 
previously made. 

He sulked for the remaining two days of his 
stay, for I let him go on Saturday night. 

He tried to be jaunty as he took his check, 
but I was distant and business like. His smile 
faded into a sneer. “ I hope,” he said causti¬ 
cally; “ that some day your charity will equal 
your beauty.” 

“ Thank you,” I responded. “ I hope for 
you that your judgment may grow to reach 
your ability to pitch hay.” 

With this graceful exchange of compliments, 
we parted. And I must say that in spite of the 
eye incident, I missed him. 


CHAPTER X 

SO SHE GOT A NEW FORD, AND HIRED A NEW 
MAN— 

The next hay crop dogged my heels. A new 
crew of men gobbled their noon meal with an 
avidity that is supposed to compliment the 
cook. I had ironed all morning over the hot 
stove and prepared dinner, so I was dreadfully 
tired. I sat, charitably wishing the pie, which 
they appreciated so, would choke them. 

It didn't. They all survived it, and the last 
man tramped out leaving Paul and me alone to 
finish our meal. It was a fearfully hot day, 
and the dining room reeked with odors. Paul 
began about the car, which was out of com¬ 
mission. I might say “as usual." 

“ I'm tired of paying garage bills on it, Paul," 
I said. “ We'll have to get rid of it." 

Paul brightened at once. “ I’ve been think¬ 
ing that for a long time, Sis. It's cheaper to 
get a new one. Let’s get a Chandler. They're 
a swell looking car." 

“ They all look alike to me, just now," I said 
wearily. 

“ Oh, Kid! There’s loads of difference. 
Why the Chandler — " 


102 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ I mean,” I said; “ they all cost more money 
than we can afford.” 

“ Sure.” Paul reached for the cigarettes 
that he had learned to smoke since we came to 
the ranch. “ But we can't get along without 
a car.” 

“ We'll have to,” I answered decisively. I 
hadn’t intended to break the news so baldly, 
but I didn't feel diplomatic just then. “ I'm 
going to turn it in and get a Ford Delivery.” 

“ What! ” Paul paused in the act of light¬ 
ing. “ One of those darned things with a box 
on the back? Nix, Nettie Ann. I won't stand 
for that.” 

I said nothing. No use to argue. 

Paul got up excitedly and shoved his chair 
under the table. “ We’d look like fools run¬ 
ning around in a thing like that! ” 

“ The man is coming out with it this after¬ 
noon,” I said. And then he did storm. 

I endured it for a few minutes, because I felt 
sorry for him about it, then I said: 

“ Now Paul, stop! We’ll just have to face 
the fact that we’re losing ground every day, 
and if we don't find some way to retrieve our¬ 
selves the ranch is gone forever. And I for one, 
am not going to lose all we've done here. I’m 
going to move heaven and earth,” I declared, 
getting excited also, for I was so tired, and the 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


103 


heat was stifling. “ I’m going to end this five 
years the owner of this ranch. I’ll let nothing 
stop me. It’s going to be my one idea from 
now on, and I’m going to use any legitimate 
means to that end. And you’ve got to help 
me. That old car is nothing but a bill of ex¬ 
pense. It eats up dollars worse than hired 
help. We can’t afford another — ” 

Paul cut me off by slamming the door, fling¬ 
ing back something about “ a hell of a ranch 
that couldn’t support some kind of a car! ” 
Well, maybe it was. It had seemed just 
that and nothing else for the last three days 
with the mercury at a hundred and ten in the 
shade. 

I felt a rush of hysterical tears. It was 
terrible to quarrel with Paul! I wanted to 
quit right there, and let the I. O. 0. F.’s have 
it, but the trouble was, I couldn’t. Suddenly 
I remembered my little chickens. There was 
always something to be fed! 

I put on my hat, got my feed can, and went 
out into the blistering heat. 

Everything outside drooped and wilted. 
The dahlia blossoms, shriveled in the bud, told 
of successive days of heat. The roses, pale and 
odorless, flared helplessly with blasted hearts, 
under the pitiless rays. 

The hens stood panting, with spread wings, 


104 SOIL, THE MASTER 

under any bit of shade, and the hogs (the only 
suggestion of comfort visible) wallowed luxu¬ 
riously in the cool mud. 

I fed my chicks and went back to the house, 
finding it hard to remember that in February 
the ground had been white with snow. I 
washed my dishes, and dripping with perspira¬ 
tion, I, like the pigs, sought, not exactly a 
puddle, but a cool bath and dry clothing. I 
felt more comfortable, but my mind was still 
cross and revolutionary. 

I had just finished dressing when I heard the 
jerky commotion an approaching Ford makes, 
and I knew that my “ car ” had come. 

Hating the thing, I went out to greet Mr. 
Perry, the smiling salesman. 

He leaped out of the absurd little contrap¬ 
tion and began to enthuse over my purchase 
with the air of a pup that has just found an 
old bone to gnaw. 

I cut him short by telling him that the old 
car wouldn’t budge an inch, and he’d probably 
have to tow it into town. 

It takes more than that to phase an auto¬ 
mobile salesman. He continued to smile and 
said that was “ quite all right, Lady.” And 
wouldn’t I “ like to get in and try her gears, 
and see how simple and easy,” etc.? 

Well, of course, however I loathed the shining 


SOIL, THE MASTER 105 

little upstart, I supposed I’d have to learn to 
run it. I got in. 

Before we could get started, I saw Jake, the 
tall, lanky individual whom I had hired to cut 
the hay come across the creek with the mower. 

What next? One of the men had quit the 
day before, not liking Paul’s suggestion that he 
pick up his hay shocks cleaner, and one had 
laid off with a chill. 

I waited until Jake got near enough to an¬ 
nounce that the mower had “ done quit dead 
on him.” 

“ What’s the matter? ” I asked. 

He lifted his wilted black hat to scratch his 
head. “ I don’t know, Miss.” 

“ Why don’t you know? ” I asked exasper- 
atedly. “ I hired you because you said you 
knew how to run a mower.” 

“ Well, ain’t I been runnin’ it? ” he asked 
tartly. “ I’ve run ’er till she’s stopped.” 

I saw that another word would hopelessly 
offend his dignity, and likely make me one more 
man short. With difficulty I mustered a smile. 

“ Anybody who can manage a mower as well 
as that, ought to know how to make one.” 

He rose to my compliment with a foolish 
grin. “ It don’t always work, Miss. I can 
manage a dozen biscuits like yours, but I 
couldn’t make one to save my neck.” 


106 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

It was my turn to grin, which I did. I had 
learned it was a fatal move to criticize the hired 
man! 

“ But can’t you do something ? ” 

“ I could take ’er to pieces,” he suggested 
hopefully. 

Here Mr. Perry stepped forward politely, 
saying that he had had considerable experience 
with farm machinery — perhaps he could lo¬ 
cate the trouble. 

He followed Jake out to the implement, and 
soon came back and said it hadn’t been oiled 
properly, and something or other had “ heated ” 
and “ froze and that the sickle head had had 
“ too much play ” and had “ got to working.” 

I inquired if there was any way in which I 
could innoculate my hired men with the malady 
of the sickle head? 

Mr. Perry laughed and answered that it 
didn’t generally take; hired men were immune 
to the trouble. 

There was no oil, so I set Jake to shocking 
hay, and Mr. Perry and I started for town in 
the new Ford Delivery. 

I didn’t have any trouble learning how to 
run it, so Mr. Perry left me in town saying he’d 
be out the next day to see about the old car. 

I got some oil and groceries and deciding, 
since I was in town, I might as well take out a 


SOIL, THE MASTER 107 

man, I drove up and down the streets in search 
of one. 

There seemed to be a number not particularly 
busy, lounging around, but after inquiring 
variously about the hours, the wages, accommo¬ 
dations, the size of my crew and distance from 
town, they all were too exhausted to make any 
greater effort. 

One had just come in “ offen a job,” and was 
“ sort a used up ” and thought he’d “ lay off 
fer a spell.” One hadn’t “ ever worked so far 
out of town,” and it was “ too hot to pitch 
hay.” Another had a “ kind of funny feelin’ ” 
in his head. 

Seeing that they were all too delicate for my 
service, I turned about, pretty well disgusted. 

At the corner a tall young man in khakies 
stopped me and asked if I was looking for a 
man. 

I gave him the “ once over.” He was rather 
good looking, clean and tanned, with a pleasant 
face, at first glance, too young for the Foreign 
Service stripes on his sleeve. 

It was my turn to ask questions. Could he 
work horses; run a mower, a Ford; gasoline 
engine, plow, feed cutter, separator? Did he 
know anything about the internals of these 
various implements? Could he milk? Had 
he ever worked on a farm? 


108 SOIL, THE MASTER 


With an amused smile lurking in his hazel 
eyes, he modestly acknowledged himself to be 
familiar with the details of all farm work. 

“ Are you steady and reliable? ” I added this 
query as an after-thought. 

He nodded with a gleam in his eyes that did 
not escape me. a As a clock,” he confessed. 
“ Of course,” he added; “ I have to be wound 
up now and then.” 

I wasn’t desperately charmed with his clever¬ 
ness, and I didn’t know just what he intended 
to convey by having to be wound up; but he 
was freshly shaven, and I wanted a man, so I 
opened the Ford door and commanded him to 
get in. Not a word had he questioned as to 
conditions relating to the job. 

He darted a keen glance at my face from 
under his eyelids, and in a courteous voice 
begged leave to get his belongings, which, on 
his return, consisted of a battered suitcase and 
a bed tightly rolled in canvas. 

During our talk on the way out, it developed 
that he had been twenty months in France; 
part of the time on active service in and out of 
the trenches and part in the hospital recovering 
from the wounds, the proof of which he bore 
on his sleeve. 

He pointed to it with pride, and fumbling in 
his pocket, drew out a small box. Looking 


SOIL, THE MASTER 109 

into my face for approval, he showed me a 
Croix de Guerre. 

It was the silliest thing possible; to show me 
this before we had gone six miles! Hired men 
were always trying to show off. So I said: 

“ Oh! Did you win it? ” 

He looked around quickly at me, and gasped 
as if he had been doused with cold water. It 
was funny! Recovering himself instantly, he 
answered in bad French: 

“ Mats, non Mademoiselle jolie. Je Vaclnetee 
apres la guerre avail fini, pour la somme a dix 
sous.” 

My cheeks flamed at the impudence of the 
“ pretty lady.” I gave him an indignant look 
just as we started down a hill, and not con¬ 
scious of what I was doing, I jerked open the 
gas. 

The silly little car made a terrific leap down 
the grade, and plunged for a ditch beside the 
road. 

I forgot where the gas control was and every¬ 
thing, and reached for an emergency brake that 
wasn’t there. It didn’t take more than a 
second, but I felt us spilling all over into that 
ditch, which looked as deep as a canyon, and 
I heard everything splintering and smashing, 
when his hand shot out, grabbed the wheel, 
turned it and shut off the gas. 


110 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Del Lizzie leaped back into the road and 
steadied down. 

“ What made you do that? ” inquired my new 
man sharply. His face — serious — showed the 
hard lines of a man. 

I didn’t know why I’d done it, but I said, 
“ It’s the way I drive.” 

“ It’s all right, I s’pose; if you don’t mind 
tipping over,” he remarked, and laughed 
frankly. 

I felt awfully silly, so I asked with a slight 
sarcasm if he were at all nervous. 

“ As the dickens — for you, — if you’d hap¬ 
pen to be alone,” he added. “ First time you 
ever drove a Ford? ” 

I admitted it was. “We had a Nash — ” 

“ I see.” He reached down in the bottom of 
the car and picked up his Cross, brushed it 
tenderly, and deftly pinned it on my sleeve. 
It was a simple act done with the artlessness of 
a child. “You deserve a Cross like this if 
you’re running a ranch on your own, and 
driving a Ford, too,” he said. 

I looked at the trifle that meant so much, 
and from it to his pleasant face. My irritation 
lessened. Unpinning the Cross, I handed it 
back to him. “ Take it,” I said. “I’m not 
brave. I just didn’t know what I was getting 
into.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


111 


“ Like some of us war heroes,” he agreed. 

“ Of course I know you didn’t buy it,” I felt 
constrained to say. 

“ Not for ten sows,” he admitted, taking the 
Cross and returning it to its case. “ It nearly 
cost me a leg? But it’s worth it! ” 

“ Why don’t you wear it? ” 

“ Oh,’* now he was a big, grown up boy. 
“ It looks too much like showing off. I saw a 
soldier in Denver once, he had about a dozen 
different kinds. He must have been some man 
on the field. There was a girl on his arm, and 
he strutted down the street like he was shouting 
to the whole city to take a look at a real hero . 
It made me sick. I keep mine to show to any¬ 
body I like, and want ’em to know I’ve got it.” 

There was not a trace of embarrassment in 
his voice or face as he turned to me with a smile, 
that made it seem quite natural that he should 
like me and wish me to know what he had done. 
I rather thought I was going to like my new 
man. It appeared too, that different people 
had different ideas about the trait of “ showing 
off.” 

As we emerged from the heat and dust on 
the west side of the river, and crossed the bridge, 
the sun cast long, pointed tree shadows over 
the placid water. I hurried because I had to 
get supper and there wasn’t much time. But 


112 SOIL, THE MASTER 

I stopped a few minutes as we came by the 
Forest place, to return a pound of tea that I 
had one day borrowed in haste from Mrs. Forest. 

The whole family came out to the car; the 
three sturdy, handsome boys, two pretty little 
girls, Mr. Forest and Mrs. Forest with her baby 
in her arms. She looked flushed and tired, 
and drooped under the weight of the husky 
baby. I asked if she were ill. 

“ No. I’m feeling all right now,” she said. 
“ I was nearly all in last week when we had so 
many men to cook for. And I couldn’t work 
in my garden either then, and the weeds got 
such a start! I think I worked too long this 
morning trying to hoe them out.” 

“ I tell her she works too hard,” said Mr. 
Forest. 

“ Well, one just has to get them out, or they’ll 
take the garden. I wouldn’t have been so 
tired, but I promised my chickens I’d surely 
clean out their house today, so I’ve been work¬ 
ing at that this afternoon. It’s such a hot, 
dusty job.” 

“ I told you I’d do that as soon as I got 
around to it,” interposed Mr. Forest with a 
trace of irritation in his voice. 

“ But John,” protested the wife; “ you 
never get around to it. There is so much to 
do,” she turned to me excusingly; “ and the 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


113 


hot weather coming on, the vermin gets so bad. 
You know, Miss Torrel, you can’t get anyone 
to do those things. And John is so busy all 
the time.” 

A car passed us. In it were Francis Boalt 
and Mr. Carmichael. 

Mrs. Forest spoke of what I already knew, 
that the aunt had died and Mr. Carmichael 
was looking for a ranch to buy. 

“ If he’ll wait a couple of years, he can have 
mine,” I said. 

“ I think you can deal with him, all right,” 
said Mr. Forest. “ Somebody was asking me 
the other day whether you were going to marry 
Carmichael or Francis Boalt.” 

I felt a shock, but I answered that I wouldn’t 
decide until I found out if either wanted me. 

“ We hope someone will be able to persuade 
you,” Mrs. Forest said in her pretty way. 
“ We don’t want to lose you.” 

“ I appreciate that, Mrs. Forest,” I said. 
But I didn’t add that I hadn’t the slightest in¬ 
tention of marrying anyone and settling down to 
the hard existent conditions of the farmer’s wife. 

After we drove on, my new man asked about 
Mr. Carmichael, for the sake of conversation, 
I suppose. When I explained, he said: 

“ Oh sure. Remittance man. There’s herds 
of ’em in Montana, where I come from.” 


114 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


The men were all in when I got home. Paul 
had the kitchen fire going like a furnace, and was 
peeling potatoes. I took his job. It was about 
130 degrees Fahr. in there, but that was nothing. 
There was only one thing to be considered, and 
that was the men’s supper. 

By the time the gong rang the new man had 
inspected the mower, made friends with the 
crew and came in to the supper summons, with 
the two Airedales at his heels. 

Halleck Trent (that was the name he gave) 
fell into the routine of our life with surprising 
ease. Everyone liked him, even Paul, and he 
proved from the first, an excellent hand. He 
had a good broad grasp of practical things, for 
he had been orphaned early, he told me; and 
since had knocked about the world “ on his 
own,” served in the world war and “ did a few 
more things.” I couldn’t quite “ get ” him. 
There seemed an undercurrent beneath his 
light, engaging manner, just as his face changed 
sometimes from a simple, attractive boy’s, to 
the hard, set lines of a man. 

But that didn’t matter. He was more in¬ 
telligent and capable than any man I’d ever 
had, and he actually knew something about 
farm work and machinery. For the second 
time, I had made a real “ find.” I hoped it 
wouldn’t turn out like Dick Patton. 


CHAPTER XI 

ANNETTE RECEIVES A PROPOSAL—THE 
HAND OF THE MASTER 

The heat increased, and the flies swarming in 
from the stables, nearly drove me crazy. As 
the summer advanced, work piled up all over 
the state. Men were harder to get, less com¬ 
petent and less choice. On my own ranch the 
early fruit, potatoes, garden, young corn, the 
weeds that sprang up as if from a Hindu’s 
magic spell, the ever recurring irrigating prob¬ 
lems, the dairy, horses, hogs and machinery all 
demanded attention; and the everlasting hay¬ 
ing stood over us like a Giant with a whip. 

And the awful heat! and the ever-gaping maw 
of something that must eat! Worn to a shad¬ 
ow, I worked the farm woman’s seventeen 
hours per day, and hated the gleam of morning 
light that ushered in another day’s toil. 

The men came in disheveled and weary at 
night; the horses lagged in their collars and 
still the striving earth urged us on. There was 
no help nor stop. We were caught in the great 
factory of the Soil, and the Master whipped 
each of us into place. 

I broke down under it, and had to send for 


116 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

Martha, good, fat old Martha, as welcome as a 
broad armed oak at noon day. 

On top of this, two letters came: one from 
Pinky who said she was off to Pacific Grove for 
a month. She was all tired out, what with 
taking care of Baby and the housekeeping. 
And it was so hot in the city. How she envied 
me in the country under those wonderful oaks, 
and that beautiful stream of water! 

Pink “ was all tired out ” taking care of one 
baby, and ordering meals for Jimmy from the 
delicatessen, and with a woman to come once 
a week and clean! 

I wanted to write and tell her about Mrs. 
Forest who washed, ironed, baked, churned, 
cleaned, scrubbed, sewed, and kept house and 
cooked for a family of eight, with six hired men 
added; and who also raised chickens, turkeys, 
ducks, geese, pigs and a garden, and when she 
had nothing else to do, went out and helped her 
husband fix up fences. Only I didn’t have pep 
enough to start in. And I didn’t want to shock 
Pinky; she was almost as delicate as the average 
hired man! 

The other was from Dustan who asked if he 
might come up for a fortnight; and Serena had 
heard so much about the ranch, she wanted to 
come also. 

I laid down the letter with a terrible sinking 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


117 


in my stomach. I couldn’t have them. I 
simply couldn't! It was so hot, and all those 
smelly men, and that disgusting little Ford, and 
the flies! And Serena of all people! I just held 
my head in my hands and shrieked (inside of 
me). No! No!! No!!! 

Dustan’s clear-cut, aristocratic face rose to 
my mind in front of all the chaotic background 
of work, hurry and heat, and I knew that I 
wanted to see Dustan. I wanted to hear his 
quiet, even voice, and feel the sustained clasp 
of his smooth, cool fingers. But honesty and 
common humanity forced me to write, that 
though I’d love to have them, it was so terribly 
hot they would simply die ! 

Dustan wrote back saying cheerfully that it 
couldn’t be hotter than in the city just then. 

There wasn’t anything more to say, so on 
the date they set, I got Francis Boalt to drive 
in after them. I simply couldn’t face them in 
the Ford Delivery. Thank Heaven! It turned 
a little cooler that evening. 

Martha did herself proud in the matter of 
“ eats,” and Serena was delighted with every¬ 
thing. She liked to eat, as her curves bore 
proof. 

I just looked at cleanly Dustan and his ease, 
and reveled in his low cultured voice as the 
Prodigal must have gloated over the fatted calf. 


118 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Paul too, was jubilant, for the poor boy was 
about as starved as I. 

Serena put on her best behavior and said 
everything was lovely, but wasn’t I a little 
thinner? 

“ I should say so,” said Dustan. “ What 
have you been doing to yourself? ” 

I just smiled and said, “ Oh, I always get 
thinner in the hot weather.” 

Serena continued her patronage. I had such 
a quaint little retreat, but didn’t I feel — well 
— sort of unsexed among so many rough men? 
And wasn’t I afraid? 

Dustan looked around at her with uplifted 
brows; and I answered, hardly able to be civil. 

“ No. I feel like a queen on her throne, 
among her loyal subjects.” 

Of course I didn’t; but that was the way to 
impress Serena. In truth I felt like any other 
farm woman working from daylight till long 
past dark, trying to make both ends meet, and 
so busy getting the hired men fed, there was no 
time for personal feelings. But it wasn’t neces¬ 
sary to tell Serena that. 

It was pleasant though, having them. I 
hadn’t seen any of the old Bunch for so long. 
At least I enjoyed Dustan, who was a good 
sport. He even put on a pair of Paul’s overalls 
and went out and pitched hay. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


119 


But Serena was an awful trial, to me, at 
least. She stayed up all night talking, play¬ 
ing, walking or driving with Paul, (she pre¬ 
tended to think the Ford great fun), and then 
she would never get up until eleven, and Martha 
or I would have to get her breakfast, just at 
the time when we were most busy getting the 
noon meal for the men. 

The worst of it was, we had to put up with 
her vagaries and make it as pleasant as possible 
for her; because if Serena didn't enjoy herself, 
nobody in her vicinity did either. 

Dustan poked around and painted, sketched, 
made friends with the country people and the 
hired men. Still on the lookout for “ types, ” 
he offered one of the men five dollars to pose 
for him. 

That independent gentleman glared at Dus¬ 
tan and told him to “ go to hell with his rotten 
paint, or he’d knock his block off.” 

Immensely tickled, Dustan reproduced him 
from memory, slouch, glare and all. 

It was a type surely, and I pinned it up on 
the dining room wall just to show Bill Stark 
how easily he had lost five dollars. The other 
men guyed him, and inquired if he were “ going 
into the movies ” or be a “ bally dancer! ” 

Meanwhile Serena tired of Paul and acquired 
a “ summer case ” on Halleck Trent. She was 


120 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

always dressing up in lovely, flimsy gowns and 
finding excuses to talk to him, or dropping her 
handkerchief for him to pick up; which, I must 
say, he did very gracefully for a hired man. 
She got him in the habit of coming on the porch 
after supper to talk, which wouldn’t have been 
anything very dreadful, if the other men hadn’t 
taken exception to it and sulked. Paul too, got 
cross and wouldn’t stay around, but went off 
nearly every evening, to see Lucy Graham, I 
supposed. 

It turned hot again. Serena gasped and 
wilted. The hay balers came unexpectedly, 
four extra men, and Martha collapsed with a 
chill. 

There wasn’t any help to be had, except what 
Paul and Dustan gave me. I hoped Serena 
would go home, but she didn’t. She ambled 
about in bewitching negligees and had head¬ 
aches. These I had to try to alleviate in addi¬ 
tion to all my other work and taking care of 
Martha. 

She always perked up in the evening and then 
we all had to entertain her. She played be¬ 
tween Halleck and Paul, not very cleverly, I 
could see. They came to a sort of understand¬ 
ing over her, and Paul got over his pet. 

Francis Boalt and Mr. Carmichael came over 
one evening. I told Serena about Mr. Car- 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


121 


michael’s inheritance so she turned her atten¬ 
tions to him. But after he had talked for 
fifteen minutes on the superiority of the Alsike 
and Timothy mixture over Red Clover, she 
deserted him for Francis Boalt. 

I was so tired every night, I wanted to crawl 
off and die, and I didn’t feel any peppier this 
night, only I had to be hospitable. So while 
the rest were talking I went into the kitchen to 
make some lemonade. 

Mr. Carmichael offered to come with me. 
While we squeezed lemons he told me all about 
the ranch he had bought with acres of alfalfa, 
and cows already on the ground, and the house 
he intended to build, and that he expected to 
leave Francis and go to farming on his own 
place, soon. 

My tired feet pained me like the toothache, 
but I smiled and said it was so nice, and agreed 
that the dairy business was the most interesting 
and lucrative occupation, with the greatest 
future possible. I added that we were sorry to 
lose him out of the community. 

He answered that I was awfully kind, and 
then before I had any idea of what he was 
coming to, he suddenly made me an unimpas¬ 
sioned, though definite proposal. 

I was so surprised, and annoyed too. I 
gasped out: 


122 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ Oh, my goodness! No. No farmer need 
apply to me. Put the sugar in and stir it up, 
and get the glasses out of the cupboard. My 
feet are killing me! ” 

Poor Mr. Carmichael reddened up into the 
roots of his pale hair, and his outstanding ears 
looked like twin tail-lights. He went meekly 
to the cupboard just as Dustan and Halleck 
came in to see if they could help. 

They could. I loaded all of the three with 
the pitcher, glasses and cakes and sent them 
back while I blew out the light, slipped off my 
shoes, and sat down with a groan, feeling that 
never again would I be able to face Mr. Car¬ 
michael after my inexcusable rudeness. 

Paul came in pretty soon and found me sit¬ 
ting on the wood box in the dark, nursing my 
aching toes. 

“ What’s become of you, Sis? Why don’t 
you get out there? ” he complained. “ This 
pitcher’s gone dry. Is there any more ice? ” 

“ No, there isn’t,” I said wearily. “ I for¬ 
got to re-wrap it last night and it nearly all 
melted. Get well water; it’s cool enough.” 
I’d got to the point that I didn’t care if it was 
warm as dishwater. But I put on my shoes 
and joined my guests, leaving Paul to make 
the lemonade. 

The next day the balers got through so early 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


123 


in the forenoon that they couldn’t decently 
stay for dinner, and Martha missed her chill, 
so life assumed a more roseate hue. 

At noon there came a telephone call from 
Celia. She was home again and intended 
coming over to see us. 

I told Paul, who was just foolish, he was so 
pleased. He at once suggested a moonlight 
picnic on the creek, and I couldn’t agree quick 
enough. We all flew around and made up a 
nice lunch, and by the time Celia came, we were 
all ready. 

She rode over on her horse, but she had a 
little green organdie dress in a bundle tied on 
her saddle. She looked like a bunch of fresh 
ferns when she put it on. Dustan asked me if 
I thought she would sit for him. I hoped she 
would because she was lovelier than ever, and 
sweeter if possible. 

We sat around and talked until evening, for 
she had been gone so long, nearly a year. I 
helped Martha get supper for the men. Then 
we all got our things together as the sun began 
to get low. As we were one man short, Serena 
suggested that I ask Halleck Trent. 

I agreed if she’d take care of him, for I knew 
that Celia wanted Paul and I wasn’t going to 
have him on my hands. 

I asked him. He looked surprised yet pleased 


124 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

and asked if we were going before supper. As 
I said we were, he went off to change his clothes. 

As we were going just over in the field, we 
started about sundown with our picnic para¬ 
phernalia. Paul carried the lunch-hamper, 
Dustan an armful of rugs and Halleck a lot of 
cushions. Celia had the coffee pot, and I a 
pail for water. Serena took her lovely self and 
her parasol. The latter, not because the sun 
was so hot (as she said) but because her blonde 
hair looked so well against the lilac background. 

Zed came trotting up all primed to go, but I 
made him stay back (to his infinite disgust) 
because Serena didn’t like to have dogs along. 
Everyone in the party understood that, except 
Zed who lay resignedly down with his nose flat 
to the ground and gazed at me with reproachful 
eyes. 

In the field the purple haze of sunset hung 
low, blurring the outline of hill and tree to re¬ 
semble a wonderfully soft etching, colored with 
summer tints, and there was no sound at all 
except the faint gurgle of running water. 

We found a beautiful place down by the creek 
where the receding water had left a sand and 
gravel bar. We could see the water’s tranquil 
flow, and through the circle of trees surrounding 
us, we saw the red sun go down and the moon 
take its place in the warm gray sky. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


125 


The men built a fire of driftwood and set the 
coffee to boil, while Celia and I stretched the 
tablecloth on the smoothest part of the bar, 
and laid out the lunch. Serena, of course, just 
sat on a rug with all the cushions around her, 
looked charming, and chatted to Paul and 
Halleck Trent. 

When lunch was ready we gathered about 
sitting cross-legged in reach of the table and 
ate, not minding the cramps that got in our 
knees. 

I watched Serena keep Halleck busy waiting 
on her, which was right as it made him feel one 
of us. After we finished eating we still sat there 
in the pleasant firelight. Paul and Celia sang, 
Serena and Dust an told travel tales and Hal¬ 
leck contributed some interesting war ex¬ 
periences. 

“ Tell us how you won your Cross, Mr. 
Trent,” begged Serena. 

He laughed and said: “ Oh, there isn’t much 
to tell. The General dropped one while dis¬ 
tributing Crosses one day, and I picked it up. 
Couldn’t ever get up the courage to return it,” 
he added as he rose to get more wood for the fire. 

We all laughed, and while he was away Dus- 
tan told us that he had volunteered to deliver 
a message under heavy fire, and though he got 
it through, he was badly wounded. 


126 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

The fire flared picturesquely under the fresh 
fuel Halleck brought, the sparks dancing sky¬ 
ward through the smoke like tiny atoms of 
flaming life. He resumed his place beside 
Serena and sat there looking so serious I 
couldn’t help wondering where his thoughts 
wandered or dwelt. 

For my part, I felt restless. The firelight 
flickered on Celia’s ruddy hair as she talked to 
Paul, a gay little chatter like a brook running 
over bright pebbles. And Paul’s attractive 
boy face showed that he had entirely forgotten 
the rest of us. 

I looked down at Dustan who lay beside me 
stretched out on his back, gazing up at the 
twinkling star-candles above. His face in 
shadow, hid his thoughts from my predatory 
mind. Dustan’s impressionable soul was very 
likely to lead his thoughts into formless dreams 
destined later to take on marvelous shapes with 
unbelievable color and beauty. 

Serena’s purring voice challenged Halleck and 
I felt alone. I turned my attention to the fire 
which crackled and swung in the vagrant breeze, 
eating its flaming way into the heart of the dead 
brush, and letting the dying embers fall into 
the mass of red coals, which in turn, would soon 
be cold white ashes. It seemed a living thing: 
fire, hot and red, and burning like life, growing 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


127 


out of the small spurt of a lighted match. And 
like all the big things of life, as ready to flare 
uncontrolled to the destruction of a city, as to 
burn quietly within bounds to the frying of an 
egg for breakfast. 

Serena again jolted my meditations with a 
cry of real terror. 

“ Oh, Mr. Trent! Look! What’s that ? ” 

We all looked. Dustan, startled out of his 
dreams, sat up. All eyes followed Serena’s 
tremblingly pointing finger. 

Out of the dark underbrush behind us, cast 
in shadow by a pile of drift, shone two round 
balls of fire watching us intently. They 
shifted slightly, disappeared and came back, 
eyeing us in a sinister way. 

“ It’s some wild animal,” said Dustan in a 
low voice, not without apprehension. 

“ A hear , do you think? ” breathed Celia, 
her face white even in the ruddy glow of the 
fire. 

“ It isn’t big enough for that. And there’s 
no bear around here — is there, Torrel? ” 

“ Never heard of any,” answered Paul. 
“ But it might be a mountain lion.” 

“ They spring on you out of the dark, don’t 
they? ” I asked. I confess I felt afraid with 
those two detached, gleaming balls suggesting 
all sorts of terrors. 


128 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Serena gave a faint shriek of horror and crept 
closer to Halleck Trent. 

“ It won’t attack us while we’re near the 
fire,” consoled Dustan. 

“ But how in the dickens will we ever get 
away from here? ” demanded Paul. “ We 
can’t sit here all night.” 

“ We might take fire brands and wave them 
around our heads as we ran,” suggested Celia 
hopefully. “ I’ve heard of doing that.” 

Halleck Trent hadn’t said anything. I turned 
to look at him. 

He sat still, letting Serena lean, trembling, 
against him, but he didn’t seem to be paying 
much attention to her. Instead he looked 
steadily in the direction of the creature that had 
stalked and found us. He gave a low, sharp 
whistle. 

The fiery balls wavered. 

“ Don’t scare it away from there,” I en¬ 
treated; “ We won’t know where it is then.” 

He whistled again, and, as I feared, the 
creature bounded out of the brush through the 
intervening shade, and catapulted itself on 
me. 

I shrieked like a Commanchee. 

Dustan sprang to my assistance and Celia 
cried distractedly: 

“Paul! Oh, Paul!” And then Zed, the 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


129 


scamp, jumped all over me, licked my face, and 
began barking wildly for a piece of chicken. 

I pushed him away, and we all laughed and 
laughed over our silly fright. 

Paul tossed Zed a bone and he lay down be¬ 
side Halleck to gnaw blissfully. 

Celia came and knelt on the sand to pull his 
ears with soft, loving fingers. “ You bad, nice 
doggie! ” she teased. “ Did you know it was 
Zed, Mr. Trent? ” 

Halleck laughed his low, attractive laugh. 
He rose and helped Serena to her feet. “ No,” 
he said; “ I didn’t know, but I thought it 
might be, as I sent him back again after we 
started.” 

Feeling rather silly over my screech, I reached 
and boxed Zed crisply, not very hard, however. 
He took it as a delightful joke and went tearing 
about making the fields ring with the echo of 
his barking. 

It was time then to go, so we gathered our 
things together, extinguished the camp fire and 
went back to the house. 

Halleck disappeared with a courteous “ Good 
night.” Serena said that her head ached and 
went to bed. Paul saddled his horse and rode 
home with Celia. 

Though it was late and I had to get up early 
in the morning, Dustan and I lingered on the 


130 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

porch where the moonlight filtered through the 
vines. I told Dustan what I hoped *for Paul 
and Celia. 

“ Of course I’ll miss Paul terribly,” I said. 

Dustan put his arm around me and I leaned 
for a minute against his shoulder. Neither of 
us spoke. In the absolute silence of the sum¬ 
mer night around us, we heard the rumble of a 
far off train and its shrill whistle. The dining 
room clock struck twelve clear, musical strokes. 
I drew away from him and went to my own 
room. 

Serena planned to go home next day, and I 
must confess I didn’t urge her to stay. I did 
voice polite regrets, of course, but she said she’d 
promised Geraldine Pah tune that she’d visit 
her at her father’s country place on the Russian 
River. 

I understood. I’d met the Pahtunes once. 
They were “ real people ” according to Serena. 
The father was something of an art critic and 
patron, awfully egotistical and opinionated. 
Geraldine was rather more disagreeable than 
Serena, being wealthy and in a position. I 
hoped that Serena might be able to annex Mr. 
Pahtune, who was a widower, for if I was going 
to marry Dustan, which I knew was very 
likely some day, I wanted to be good and rid of 
Serena. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


131 


She got away, but Paul and I persuaded Dus- 
tan to stay longer. After she was gone, life 
went along quite pleasantly. 

Dustan set up his easel at one corner of the 
garden under a big walnut tree. I stayed out 
there much of the time, and hoed and irrigated 
the vegetables while he painted. Sometimes 
we’d change off; he’d hoe while I painted. But 
he was unfortunate in hoeing up the vegetables 
instead of the weeds, and I didn’t see colors 
exactly as he did. 

He was awfully interested in “ getting under 
the skin ” of country life as he said. He 
tramped around over the neighborhood with 
his sketching pad and talked to the farmers and 
the farm women. He brought home numbers of 
pretty sketches of children and places, of pure¬ 
bred cattle and horses, of quickly caught ex¬ 
pressions and moods of the men and women 
with whom he talked. These he pored over as 
a chemist pores over his crucibles. 

One hot day he came home and flung himself 
and his portfolio on the bench under the walnut 
tree. 

“ I saw something today that made me sit 
up and take notice.” 

I left my irrigating ditch to take care of itself 
and approached him inquiringly. 

“ I stopped in at the Forest place to get a 


132 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

drink — I was warm! Your Stonehouse County 
sun is certainly fervid. After I got my drink, 
I stopped to talk with Mrs. Forest. And in 
came that boy — or man, who works there — 
Tom — ” 

“ He draws a man’s wages,” I said. 

“ — yelling at the top of his voice where was 
John? The plow team had become scared and 
the “ stallion was raisin’ hell ” — Pardon me, 
his words, Annette. Mrs. Forest jumped up 
with her baby in her arms, and ran outside. I 
followed though I didn’t know what was wrong. 
From the yard we could see the team pitching 
around. One horse was down and the other 
three raising general Cain. She said, ‘ Why 
didn’t you unhitch them, Tom? ’ He began to 
blubber, and she turned to me. ‘ Take the 
baby,’ and started for the field. I passed baby 
on to the oldest girl and took after her. And, 
by George! If she didn’t unhitch that stallion 
out of that plunging bunch, and put him in the 
barn, while we two stood by like gaping fools. 
I opened the barn door for her, that was all I 
knew how to do.” Dustan’s gray eyes glowed 
violet as they always did in excitement. 

“ She’s a farm woman,” I said. “ They’re 
like that.” 

“ But she might have been injured, or 
killed! ” 


133 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ She had to do it, just the same. Some of 
the horses would probably have been killed if 
she hadn’t. Farm women never consider them¬ 
selves.” I went on to tell him of little Mrs. 
Keene who came with pick and shovel to raise 
the dam in the irrigating ditch so that her 
garden need not die for water. “ And Dustan, ” 
I added; “ she was about to become a 
mother.” 

Dustan got up and tramped about. “ I 
can’t understand such conditions! ” 

“ Simply this.” You know the closer the 
races are to aboriginal life, the more labor falls 
on the female — ” 

Dustan glared at me and interrupted with, 
“ But confound it, Annette! The American 
farmer isn’t an aboriginal.” 

I shook my head. “ No, not exactly. No 
one would call him that. But the life is close 
to primal life, and conditions are primitive. 
Where else would you find cultured, educated 
women cleaning out chicken houses and build¬ 
ing fences? The Forests have money, and 
Mrs. Forest was a High School teacher before 
she married. There is work to do, and women 
must do their share.” 

“ Share! That sort of thing is not a woman’s 
business.” 

I looked down at my work roughened hands. 


134 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ Those are just specific cases of meeting a con¬ 
dition as all farm women do.” 

He turned on me. “ But, damn it! I beg 
your pardon, Annette. What is that ass of a 
hired man for? Why don’t Forest keep a com¬ 
petent man? ” 

I laughed shortly. “Now you’re getting 
down to brass tacks, Dustan. ‘ They ain’t no 
such animal.’ Or but rarely. A competent 
farm hand will soon be as rare as a gold quarter.” 

“ But why? ” demanded Dustan. “ Why 
not? What are the’Agricultural Colleges doing?” 

“ Turning out Farm Managers, not compe¬ 
tent farm hands. It’s not the fault of the 
colleges; it’s the men, nobody wants to be a 
competent farm hand.” 

“ Well, by George! All I can say, it’s a 
damned curious condition! ” Dustan forgot to 
apologize. 

“ It’s very regrettable.” I remarked. 

It was out of this, I think, that Dustan’s 
great picture grew; “ The Woman of the 
Farm.” 

It was beautiful! A wide shining beam of 
light from the west, reaching almost to the 
center of the picture, caught, blinded, the eye, 
and threw it back to the somber background of 
an ancient forest, dark with mystery and gloom. 

Then, and not till then, you saw the real sub- 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


135 


ject of the picture: the heroic figure of a woman 
in the dim half light. Her broad, erect shoul¬ 
ders formed for burdens; her strong forearms, 
tanned * almost to Indian darkness, with her 
hands open for any task. In her face, the 
knowledge of the past and the vision of the 
future. And out of her clear eyes shone a 
spirit, fearless, undaunted; and her firm-lipped 
mouth smiled the courage of a warrior. At her 
feet a child played among rows, and endless 
rows of pale green cabbages. 

I had seen it grow from day to day, as Dustan 
worked at it with the fervor of inspiration that 
allowed no interruption, and I knew something 
of what he was putting into it. But as he 
touched it with the last brush stroke, and 
turned to me for my appraisal, I said bluntly: 

“ It won’t go, Dustan. You’ve broken all 
the rules of art with that great beam of light 
in the foreground.” 

He looked at me surprised, shocked. “ It 
will go, Annette,” he retorted with conviction; 
“ because it expresses a great truth. And art, 
true art, must be, and always is, an expression 
of truth.” 

He got up from his seat and drew me back 
to a more natural range of perspective. 

“ Look at it! ” he commanded. “ Look at 
the woman’s face.” 


136 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


I obeyed. 

As I looked, the face of the woman seemed to 
glow with life, to come slowly out of the shadow 
and shine with a spiritual light that crowned 
the whole conception with an heroic meaning 
unmistakable. But I would not be convinced. 

I said bitterly, “ You are a great artist, 
Dustan, and a great painter; but your vision is 
awry in the distorted imagination of genius, 
which is likely to break out in marvelous 
misconceptions, false, often, even though they 
achieve beauty. The one thing of truth is the 
cabbages. Such are our days: rows and endless 
rows, of cabbages! ” 

“ Annette — ” It was plain that my criti¬ 
cism hurt Dustan, for his eyes grew dark and 
pained; “ you didn’t use to be so unseeing.” 

“ I am of the soil now, and my perception is 
dulled.” 

“ Voluntarily then.” Dustan turned on me 
like a Judge. “ Why should the relationship 
with the soil dull your perception? How deep 
is the earth? How broad? How varied? 
Where else are the elements of life itself? 
Everything is founded on the earth — f The 
despised poor earth; the healthy, odorous 
earth ’ — and what is more enduring, except 
God? You don’t know, have no idea, what 
this contact has done for you. You are differ- 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


137 


ent, Annette; I can see that, but not dulled. 
The woman there is the embodied spirit of your 
life, the life of Mrs. Forest, and hundreds of 
such women, of the woman who had the 
strength, courage, to save her garden and her 
baby, too. Can’t you see the wonderful hero¬ 
ism of that one act? ” 

“ I can see nothing but the injustice of it, 
the cruelty. Look, I can give you the truth.” 

Turning swiftly, I caught up his drawing pad 
and charcoal from the bench and sketched 
rapidly; a toil bent, weary man and woman, 
a fretting horse and dog, all yoked to a plow, 
drawing long furrows in a barren field. Over 
them a cruel, hard faced monster with a mighty 
muscled arm wielded a heavy whip. 

“ There! ” I said in triumph; “ There is 
your ‘ Woman of the Farm,’ her consort and 
associates; her comrades in the service of the 
Soil.” 

Dustan looked at it in silence for many 
minutes, his face grave. 

“ Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “ But when 
the plowing is done, these people will plant. 
You’re overlooking their best crop.” He indi¬ 
cated the bright head of the child. “ As our 
war proved, the best men, as a class, came 
from the farms.” 

“ They said so,” I admitted grudgingly. 


138 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ Like ‘ Tommy Atkins’: 

‘ It’s Tommy this; and Tommy that; 

And Tommy how’s your soul? 

But it’s “ First front rank for Atkins! ” 
When the drums begin to roll.’ ” 

Dustan’s grave face glowed with quick sym¬ 
pathy; he turned to me impetuously. “ An¬ 
nette, dearest — ” 

Paul’s voice interrupted from the kitchen. 

“ Say, Puss. Your bread’s got loose, and is 
running amuck all over the kitchen.” 

“ Oh, I forgot it! ” I broke away from Dus- 
tan and ran into the house. The bread which 
I had set for dinner, and forgotten, had over¬ 
run, and dropped in thick gobs down over the 
stove and floor, and receded to a sodden mass 
in the bottom of the pans. 

“ How could I forget it? ” I wailed. “No 
bread for dinner! And it’s so hot.” 

It was no time for wailing. The men would 
arrive in half an hour for dinner. Hot biscuits 
were my only resource. 

I stirred them hastily, and replenished the 
fire to the baking point, which brought the 
kitchen temperature up to 128 °. 

But the men must have bread though I burn 
to a cinder. So I provided it, trying to feel 
like a beautiful heroine, instead of a baked 
potato. 


CHAPTER XII 

EVERYTHING HAPPENED — BOOTLEG — AND 
VEEKY LAID AN EGG 

Dustan went home soon after this, and how 
I missed him! Before he went, he pled with 
me for a real engagement, but I wouldn’t con¬ 
sent. I didn’t want to have anything to dis¬ 
tract my attention from the big task of winning 
my farm. He wasn’t very enthusiastic over 
my decision, but he had to accept it, as I 
couldn’t see it in any other light. 

After he was gone things began to happen. 
The most wonderful was a fat plum which fell 
into my lap, when I didn’t even know there was 
a plum tree in sight. 

A series of Harvest Drawings which I had 
made the first year after coming to the ranch, 
caught the attention of a mush manufacturer 
who offered me a thousand dollars for the ex¬ 
clusive rights, for cereal advertisements. 

How I hugged myself! I sent the drawings 
on, and the check came promptly, with the 
intimation that they might be able to use more 
along the same lines, later on. 


140 SOIL, THE MASTER 

I didn’t wait one minute — didn’t even tell 
Paul. I just telephoned to the Dodge man to 
bring out a car. Celia was going to be home 
until early winter. Paul should have his 
chance. 

When the car came, and Paul realized it was 
ours and how I got it, he just grabbed me up, 
set me on his shoulder and carried me all around 
the yard. 

“ Oh, Puss, you’re a Brick! ” he shouted, 
giving me a hearty smack as he set me down. 

He took about five minutes to learn about 
the gears and things; and that night he took 
Celia to a show in Redlands. 

I was so happy. That worry was over, and 
I was single minded to conquer my ranch 
problems. 

The reaction came when two dreadful things 
happened in one week, and took all the money 
and more, that I had laid away with my left 
hand so that my right hand couldn’t find it and 
pay it out to hired men. 

I’d planned to have a new fall suit with part 
of it, and maybe take a week in the city; but 
the bubble began to swell up when Dolly, my 
Imported Ayrshire, about ready to calve, 
quite suddenly dropped her calf, dead, and 
died too. 

It was certainly an awful blow to me. Mr. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


141 


Cattman had offered me a hundred dollars for 
the calf as soon as it was born. And Dolly 
was such a nice old cow, and a wonderful milker. 

Jan said he couldn’t understand it at all. He 
had let her out to drink the night before and she 
was as well as could be. 

But why it was didn’t make any difference; 
it was, and I had to stand it. That happened 
on Monday, and on Friday old Fritz, the cross- 
grained old German, while riding one of his 
team horses out to the field, had to fall off and 
break his leg. 

Halleck said that Betsy had a loose shoe which 
caused her to stumble. All the men said it was 
Fritz’s own fault, because Pat, who looked after 
such things, wanted him to wait and have the 
shoe nailed on, but he wouldn’t stop, just 
scrambled up on her back, and went. 

I’m sure I couldn’t see where I was to blame 
in the least. I didn’t ask him to get on the 
horse; he could just as well have walked to the 
field. And certainly I didn’t urge him to fall 
off and break his silly old leg. 

We rushed him to the hospital and did 
everything We could for him, and then he came 
back on me under the Farmer’s Liability Act 
for damages. 

I nearly collapsed when he demanded two 
hundred dollars; and Pat said: 


142 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ Shure, an’ it’s no two hundred dollars I’d 
be givin’ him; his whole damn body ain’t worth 
two bits. Charge him up wit Dolly, the auld 
divil! fer it’s him that kicked ’er in the belly 
and killed her.” 

“ Did he do that? ” 

“ Shure, Miss. I’m not the one fer snitchin’, 
but I saw ’im do it. And all because the auld 
swateheart licked his ear a bit, as she had the 
habit. Don’t do it, Miss. If he gits to ravin’, 
I’ll pull off his other leg and choke ’im wid it.” 

Of course I was grateful to Pat; but the law 
was all on old Fritz’s side, so I had to pay it. 

Then I was advised to insure my men, which 
I did at another expense. I told Paul that I 
hoped the next one would get killed outright, 
for it would be a lot cheaper to bury one. 
Nobody paid me for my cow and calf. 

All the neighbors felt sorry for me about my 
cow, and said it was a shame, for of course, no 
farmer sympathizes with the Liability Act for 
farmers. Unlike other vocations, the farmer 
works right along beside his men, and the 
same thing might happen to him any time. 
And who is he going to collect damages from? 
And certainly kicking my cow wasn’t one of old 
Fritz’s prescribed duties! 

I told Halleck that the farmers ought to get 
together and have the act repealed. He agreed 


SOIL, THE MASTER 143 

with me, which I thought very decent of him 
since he was a hired man himself. 

My indignation over this affair had just sim¬ 
mered down to resignation, when I discovered, 
what I had suspicioned before; my men were 
getting bootleg somewhere and bringing the 
fumes on their breath into my dining room. 
It was terribly annoying, not to say humiliating 
to me, because I counted myself a reputable 
citizen, bound to uphold the laws. 

Paul and I talked it over. “ It’s got to 
stop,” I said. 

“ Oh, for Lord’s sake, don’t say anything, 
Puss,” cautioned Paul; “ or Martha and I will 
have to put up the hay.” 

“ I’m not going to say anything. But I’m 
going to do something . I’ve stood about all 
I’m going to from those miserable hired men.” 

I got up spiritedly, seized my can of soaked 
bread, and started out to feed my little chickens, 
my mind still milling over the problem. It was 
entirely possible that there was a still some¬ 
where. 

Before I reached the chicken yard I ran across 
Bolshevik, a small speckled hen whose lawless 
character had earned her the name. We 
called her Veeky, for convenience. I couldn’t 
keep her any place. She scorned the confines 
of the yard, and the dull routine of the more 


144 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


conservative hens. She roamed the pasture, 
helped herself to garden truck, scratched up my 
flowers semi-regularly, was always getting 
buried in the hay and having to be dug out, and 
laid an egg every day in the year, not over¬ 
looking the twenty-ninth of February! 

Now she swung airily along planting her 
absurdly short legs alternately one in front of 
the other, singing raucously as she made for 
the garden. 

I whistled for Zip and Zed. 

Veeky was too few to resist, but not too brave 
to fly. She fled, squawking, into a fence corner 
overgrown by hoarhound in full seed, while the 
baffled dogs tore around her trying to frighten 
her out. 

Fearing for her ultimate safety, I was forced 
to push my way through the weeds and bring 
her out by one leg, squalling dismally. 

I was so mad at her! I threw her over into 
the yard, and spent the next fifteen minutes 
picking about a million tiny hoarhound burrs 
out of my clothes. Next to hired men, hoar¬ 
hound burrs were my abomination. But one 
thing about them, they made you forget all 
your other troubles for the time being. 

On Sunday, Bill and Charlie Graham went 
home, which was that much relief. On Mon¬ 
day morning I noticed the old familiar scent. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 145 

I wondered if the Grahams were in any way 
responsible for getting the stuff. 

After breakfast they all went out to work. 
I saw Bill leave his team and come back to the 
bunk house. Directly I heard a wild commo¬ 
tion out in the barn lot. 

I ran out in time to see the sorrel team gal¬ 
loping madly around the lot with the hay 
wagon careening after them between trees and 
buildings in the most perilous manner. 

Bill came tearing out of the bunk house, and 
all the men ran and shouted “ Whoa! ” and 
tried to shoo the team into a corner, until 
Halleck grabbed the tail of the wagon, scram¬ 
bled up, got hold of the lines and stopped the 
horses, with no casualties except a couple of 
broken corral posts where the wagon had 
hitched onto the corner in passing. I heard 
him curtly tell Bill that he’d better get next to 
himself about leaving that team standing. 

Bill meekly climbed into the wagon and took 
charge of his team. 

Drawing a deep breath of relief, I went back 
to the house, refilled the kerosene lamps, and 
put on a clean table-cloth, for Charlie Graham 
had upset his coffee cup at breakfast. He was 
terribly humiliated over it, though I told him 
it didn’t matter. But the men guyed him 
unmercifully for being nervous. 


146 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


After that Martha asked me if I would get 
some apples. The men wanted one of her 
famous apple puddings. Martha was an in¬ 
dulgent soul who still held a kindly feeling 
toward the childish sex, in spite of her three 
matrimonial adventures. 

I got a pail and started for the orchard. As 
I passed the bunk house, Old Veeky strutted 
about on the porch. Knowing that she’d be 
on the beds directly, I stopped to shut the door 
which Bill in his wild exit, had left wide open. 

The first thing that met my eye was a tall 
bottle standing on the table. 

It looked suspicious. Nobody was around so 
I walked in and applied my nose to the cork. 

Bootleg! 

Undoubtedly Bill in his excitement had for¬ 
gotten to take the usual precautions. 

I picked it up to throw it out of the window 
on the cobblestones, but caution stayed my 
hand. 

That bottle couldn’t, of its own volition, 
jump out of the window. And when the men 
discovered it broken, they’d get even on some¬ 
body, which would most probably be their 
employers. As Paul said, he and Martha 
would have to put up the hay. Destroy it I 
meant to, but crude methods wouldn’t do; 
subtlety must be the key! 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


147 


I dismissed several ideas as inadequate and 
bungling. And not until Veeky paused at the 
door, craned in her neck and fixed me with her 
round, yellow eye, did real inspiration touch 
me with a directing finger. 

I laughed out loud. “ Come in, Veeky,” I 
invited. Never loath for adventure, Veeky 
stepped in quite as if she understood. 

My mind ran on. Suppose, just suppose 
that Veeky might take it into her head to walk 
across the floor and fly up on the table? What 
if she’d take a notion to scratch those matches, 
and cigarette papers and that half sack of 
Durham off to the floor, tip over the clock and 
knock the lantern off the table? 

Suppose in her nest-making zeal she’d kick 
that bottle off, and it fell on that iron bar, 
somebody used for cracking nuts, so hard that 
it broke and spilled all its pepful contents? 
And if, after all this preparation, she chose to 
lay her egg on the table, who would blame her? 
Good old Veeky who laid an egg every day for 
somebody’s breakfast! 

I visioned so clearly that all of this happened 
before Veeky, being a trifle suspicious of my 
unusual welcome, withdrew herself through the 
door, and hopped off the porch. 

That is, it all happened except the egg. 
That meant a quick visit to the egg box, and 


148 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


a stealthy return. And there on the table, 
lay positive proof of Veeky’s irretrievable 
blunder. 

I went on and got the apples and helped 
Martha peel them, telling her to make the 
pudding extra large and sweet to atone, if 
possible, for Veeky’s unwarrantable act. 

* Martha, who had lost her third husband by 
the John Barleycorn route, laughed immod¬ 
erately and said that Veeky and I would be 
the death of her. 

At noon when the men came in, they all 
made a good-natured dash for the wash basin. 
Matt Fergueson got it and in a few minutes 
left his four-fingered brand on the clean roller 
towel. He combed his stiff hair into a brist¬ 
ling pompadour and started for the bunk 
house. 

Bill Graham made quick work of his toilet, 
and followed Matt. Charlie gave himself a 
“ lick and a promise ” and hastened after Bill, 
exclaiming, 

“ Heah, heah. I can’t stan’ you fellers! ” 

The two Dagos made a lightning job of the 
necessary rite, and took the same route. 

Halleck Trent washed and combed quickly 
and deftly as usual, talking meanwhile to Paul 
who always waited for the others. 

Martha and I left the dinner to cool while 


SOIL, THE MASTER 149 

we sneaked to a window commanding a view of 
the open bunk house door. 

Matt, ahead, strode across the threshold and 
stopped. Dead silence. 

Bill close on his heels stepped inside the door. 

“ Hell! ” he ejaculated. 

Charlie caught up with brisk stride, and the 
awful truth smote his understanding. 

“ What a devilish shame! ” And one of the 
Portuguese behind him added, “ Damned old 
hen! ” 

Then silence, grieved, portentous. They 
waited for Halleck. 

“ Careful there! ” he called. “I’m on to 
you.” 

With quick, agile steps he stood among them, 
looked, and shared their pregnant silence. 
Then we heard his laugh break out, short, sur¬ 
prised, and full of genuine amusement. We 
saw him turn and slap Bill on the shoulder. 

Shaking with mirth, Martha helped me 
hasten dinner on the table, and I rang the gong. 

The men filed out of the door dejectedly, 
except Halleck, whom I saw, behind the rest, 
stoop and pick up something from the floor. 

He was quiet at the meal, hardly rising to 
the jibes of the men, who discussed the matter 
of all chipping in and buying Bill a memory 
course. 


150 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

Bill sulked, and Matt asked if I cared if they 
drowned Bill that afternoon. 

“ Why? What’s Bill done? ” I asked pleas¬ 
antly. 

“ He’s got such a fergetter,” averred Matt. 
“ He’s done mint us. We can’t stand him! 
We’er goin’ to drownd him.” 

“I’d rather you’d wait until next week,” I 
protested graciously. “ I hate to lose a good 
stacker like Bill.” 

Martha, bringing in the pudding just then, 
snickered consciously. 

Halleck cast a quick look at her, an odd ex¬ 
pression on his face, and helpfully shoved several 
dishes aside to make room for the pudding. 

Diverted by the pudding’s arrival, the men re¬ 
ceived their helpings, swallowed them, drowned 
in cream, and went out. Halleck, eating 
slowly, remained until after Paul had finished, 
and left the room. 

Directly he rose too, and as he passed my 
chair, he stopped and laid beside my plate a 
shell hairpin set with six small brilliants which 
I recognized as my own. 

“ I found it,” he said looking at me smilingly 
intent; “ on the floor of the bunk house. It 
wasn’t there this morning. I’m just wondering 
whether you or Martha was the hen.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

TWO KINDS OF MEN SHOW THEIR METTLE 

Two days later, our small community rang 
with the news that the Sheriff's men, on a tip 
from someone, had raided the Graham place 
and found a still in a ravine back of the house. 
Several jugs of liquor were found also and con¬ 
fiscated; and the whole family taken into 
custody. 

I felt sorry for Lucy, poor girl! But they 
finally decided that she was innocent, and put 
the father on probation. Bill and Charlie were 
taken to jail for six months. I was glad, al¬ 
though I lost two good hay hands by it. 

This necessitated two new men, which we 
found after some trouble. One, Bob Nooner, 
a nice faced chap whom Halleck greeted with 
joy as a buddy he had soldiered with in France. 

The other called himself “ Coke." He was 
the illest looking specimen I had ever boarded, 
red faced and blatant; absolutely the greatest 
braggart and poorest worker I had ever had 
the misfortune to enter on my time books. He 
was always the last to start to work and the 
first to quit the stack. And I think I never 


152 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

looked in the direction of the hay wagon, but 
that he was reared back on his heels rolling a 
cigarette, while perhaps the other wagon 
waited for him to unload and get out of the 
way. And all the time I was scared to death 
for fear he would set the hay on fire. 

I requested him not to smoke on the wagon 
or stack, but he grinned at me and said, “ Oh, 
Tm very careful, Miss Torrel; there isn’t a bit 
of danger.” 

I put up with his loud talk, his dilletante per¬ 
formance, and his smoking evils for three days, 
then Paul, getting out of patience, told him 
curtly to cut out the cigarette and get his wagon 
out of the way for the other load. 

I happened to be going through the barn lot 
on one of my ever recurring chicken pilgrimages, 
so I stopped. 

Coke scratched a match on his leg, leisurely 
lighted his smoke, and insolently flicked the 
match to the ground. 

“ If you don’t like it, Perfessor, write ’er 
out.” 

Paul turned exasperatedly toward me. I 
stepped up to the wagon and said coldly, 

“ Very well. Come in and get your time.” 

Considerably taken back, he tried to laugh it 
off as a joke. But I paid him off and let him go. 

The next hay crop brought an entirely new 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


153 


set of men, except Halleck and Bob who had 
stayed to hoe the silo corn. There was a young 
man of the smart Alec type, named Jesse Lit- 
trel, and an old man, tall and raw boned, 
whom the boys called Dad. He was an awfully 
odd looking old man, with a fringe of gray hair 
around his bald crown, and his kindly face was 
generally distorted by an enormous quid of 
tobacco in his gaunt cheek. 

I set him to cutting the alfalfa in the orchard 
near the house, and I am sure that the variety 
and frequency of his oaths must have shocked 
the very horses — hardened, as they must have 
been, to florid language. 

“ Paul,” I said wearily; “ isn’t it possible to 
have him expurgate his language a trifle? 
Speak gently, Paul,” I admonished. 

Paul walked out into the orchard. 

“ See here, old man! You’ll have to cut out 
some of the language. My sister can hear every 
word you say.” I don’t think Paul tried to be 
polite. 

The mower stopped on a turn. Dad shoved 
his old black hat back on his head, and spat a 
fountain of tobacco juice in Paul’s direction. 

Looking out of the window, I saw the pro¬ 
ceedings and began to calculate how long he 
had been there times the dollars per. 

Dad reached back into his hind pocket, 


154 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

brought out a dirty blue handkerchief and 
mopped his hot face. He looked at Paul a 
minute and laughed sheepishly. 

“ I’ll be damned if you ain’t right, Son. 
Tain’t no kind of talk for the little lady. I’ll 
watch out. But that ole sorrel horse’s a son of 
a gun. Giddap! ” 

Paul came back to the house and sank weakly 
into a chair. 

“ Did you hear that, Puss? Did it happen, 
or am I dreaming? ” 

I handed him a bottle of violet ammonia. 
“ Sniff this, dear,” I said compassionately. 
“ You’ll get over the shock.” 

Paul declined my invigorator and got up. 
“ Oh, it’s a great life, Puss, if you don’t weaken.” 

Two Saturdays later I said to Martha. 
“ The men expect to get through with the hay 
tonight.” 

“ I’m mighty glad, Miss Annette,” exulted 
Martha wiping the back of her hot neck with 
her apron. “ I’d like never to see a hired man 
again.” 

“ You’re not alone in that, Martha,” I said 
grimly; “ but what I started to say is: we 
ought to give them a treat. They’re a pretty 
nice bunch of men. 

Martha began to bustle about. Giving 
treats pleased Martha. It wasn’t all joy to 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


155 


me, but it was customary in this section to give 
at least one treat during the summer, so I was 
bound to keep up the tradition. 

Paul went to town after ice and we made a 
big freezer of ice cream. We baked cakes and 
killed a flock of chickens (so to speak). It took 
all afternoon, and just before supper, Celia 
drove in looking fresh as a daisy in her white 
linen frock and sport hat. 

I was terribly hot and tired, but Celia put 
new life in me. And after a bath and fresh 
clothes, I felt fit again. I persuaded her to stay 
for supper telling her who was to comprise the 
party. 

The men thought her wonderful, I could see 
by the way they divided their attention between 
her and the fried chicken. 

The enormous plates of fried chicken, browned 
as only Martha knew how, disappeared as if by 
magic; the cakes were much appreciated, and 
Paul and Martha could hardly dig the ice cream 
out fast enough. Every man ate with the 
relish and abandon of childhood. I really 
couldn’t see why some of them didn’t burst, — 
but fortunately, no one did. 

After they were all stuffed, I asked them into 
the living room to hear Celia sing. 

Celia never sang sweeter, I know, nor had a 
more appreciative audience. She played^the 


156 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


piano, and Paul played his violin, while she 
sang song after song. The men relaxed to the 
music; there was a sympathetic understanding 
about Celia that made her akin to the whole 
world. 

Halleck told me that Bob could sing, so we 
asked him to do so. He was embarrassed and 
reluctant at first, but when he got going, his 
really good baritone voice supported Celia’s 
wonderfully well. They sang a lot of army 
songs, and everyone joined in. Our house 
hadn’t rung with such a joyful noise since the 
first summer when the Bunch was there. 

It brought Zed whining to the door. I 
opened it and he came in, but he ran around 
whining and barking so loudly, that Paul laid 
down his violin and took him out. 

Dad reached out a timid hand and picking 
up the violin, tentatively drew the bow across 
the strings. 

“ Do you play, Dad? ” I asked. 

“ I used to.” His dim old eyes looked wist¬ 
ful as he started to lay the instrument back on 
the table. 

“ Play something,” I urged. 

“ Go on, Dad. Give us a tune,” insisted the 
boys. 

He cuddled the fiddle (as he called it) under 
his chin and his knotted old fingers reached 


SOIL, THE MASTER 157 

stiffly for the strings. Somehow it went to my 
heart. 

He played little old jig tunes that nobody had 
ever heard, but they were pleasing, and we all 
applauded. 

Once when he finished, Celia clapped her 
hands, her bright face glowing. 

“ I know that.” She repeated it on the 
piano. “ It's ‘ The Yellow Rose of Texas/ 
My grandfather used to sing it, and I learned 
it to play for him. Do you know the words? 
Play it again and I’ll sing it. 

He pressed forward eagerly, gaunt, grizzled 
and soil stained, and began playing. 

Celia stood up beside him, her shining head 
thrown back, a smile in her eyes and on her 
lips. It was like a white petaled flower bloom¬ 
ing at the root of a gnarled old tree stump. 
He played the simple melody and she sang. 

“ You may talk about your Nancy girls 
And sing of Rosy Lee; 

But the Yellow Kose of Texas 
Beats the belles of Tennessee.” 

There were six stanzas after the fashion of old 
songs, and Celia sang them all. 

Halleck, watching with a child’s look on his 
face, fully appreciating Celia’s art, turned to 
me with a smile. 

I smiled in return, but I did not hear what 


158 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


he leaned forward to say, for Zed came tearing 
back to the porch, barking furiously. Paul 
quietly shut the door on him. I heard one of 
the cows low from the stable, and a horse 
neigh long and urgently. 

“ There must be something around,” I said, 
half to myself. 

Nobody paid any attention because we were 
all taken up with the song. Light and liltingly 
sweet, it evidently carried the old man back 
forty years, for his rugged old face was soft and 
tender. Perhaps Celia took the place of the 
Yellow Rose long since faded and dead. The 
song ended as it had begun simply, in a silence 
that satisfied. 

Nobody said anything for a moment. Dad 
laid down the violin, and Celia turned to close 
the piano. 

The men began to move. Littrel got up first 
saying that he had had a “ swell time,” and 
thanked me. This brought the others to their 
feet with awkward compliments. 

“ Come in again, Boys,” said Paul as they all 
tramped out with hearty good nights. 

As the door closed behind them, Zed, who was 
still barking, leaped crazily on the porch, and 
then I heard Littrel shout: 

“ Torrel! For God’s sake! The place is 
burning up! ” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


159 


“ What! Where? Oh, Zed tried to tell us! ” 
I was the first one out. 

There against the starlit sky great clouds of 
dense black smoke poured upward; and licking, 
scarlet flames darted in and out around the 
gables of my barn. And again came the shrill, 
frightened scream from the stalls. 

“ Paul! ” I shrieked; “ The horses! ” 

We all ran; Celia in her spotless linen close 
to my elbow, and Martha puffing along in the 
rear. As we ran we could hear the plunging of 
the imprisoned horses, maddened by heat and 
smoke. 

Halleck and Bob, outstripping the other men, 
flung open the big door, and the acrid smoke 
clouds rolled out. 

By the light of the flames we could see the 
terrified animals rearing and straining at their 
halters, and kicking at the burning brands 
which fell through the roof and set fire to the 
loose straw at their feet, and their quivering 
sides were black with sweat. 

“ Throw the harness on, and cut the halter 
ropes,” Halleck shouted. 

All the men darted into the burning building 
through the smoke and flames that flickered 
like fire flies across the straw-strewn floor. 

I clung to Paul, for he, about as helpless as 
we women, stayed with us. Celia, on my other 


160 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

side was crying, “ Oh, the poor horses! Will 
they get them out, Annette? Just look at the 
flames! ” Martha paced up and down, wring¬ 
ing her hands. Zed ran round and round us 
whining. 

“ Zed tried to tell us, Paul,” I said. “ Why 
didn’t we pay some attention to him! ” 

Inside the barn we could see the men moving 
swiftly, dodging in and out among the plunging 
horses. It seemed forever until Littrel came 
running out with the unbroken grey mare, a 
saddle cloth tied over her head. 

He shouted to Paul to take her, and ran 
back. 

Matt Fergueson came next with the wild 
eyed blacks snorting and rearing. Dad crowded 
him with the sorrel team, the harness awry, 
slipping off their ash strewn backs. Jan car¬ 
ried out a squealing pig and tossed it over the 
fence. 

Littrel appeared again with old Betsy shiver¬ 
ing, her ears flat against her head, and Bob close 
behind with Pearl, her mate. Littrel got out; 
but a burning brand struck Pearl's nose. She 
reared and wheeled back dragging Bob with 
her. 

Celia screamed, and Martha ran up and down 
wailing. I couldn’t even think, but Zed leaped 
through the door, barking furiously. And nip- 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


161 


ping at her heels, brought her out with Bob 
clinging to the halter. 

“ Oh you darling, darling dog! ” cried Celia, 
and we clapped our hands frantically. 

Celia cried out again. “ I’m afraid the roof 
is going to fall! Where’s Mr. Trent? ” 

I started toward the stable. “ I never 
thought about the men, Celia; I was thinking 
only of the horses.” Running forward I 
shrieked distractedly: “ Come out! Come out! 
The roof is going to fall! ” 

Nobody could hear my voice for the crackle 
and roar of the flames. The heat drove me 
back to where Celia and Martha clung together. 

“ Why don’t the child come out? ” cried 
Martha. 

The rafters began to curl and break, and then 
we saw Halleck Trent come running, hatless, a 
wide burn across his cheek, jerking Paul’s 
saddle horse after him, the uncinched girth 
flapping. Instantly the roof caved and fell in 
a seething, flame engulfed mass, barely missing 
the horse’s rump as he leaped clear. 

I struck my hands together. “ Thank Hea¬ 
ven! The horses are safe.” 

As he ran past me Halleck handed me a 
pigeon’s nest with two fat, naked squabs crowd¬ 
ing each other. “ The old ones flew out,” he 
said as he hurried on. 


162 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


I took the little creatures, remembering that 
only yesterday I had seen the nest on the sill 
and the mother pigeon flying up there with a 
worm in her beak. He must have had to 
climb to get them. 

Celia caught my arm and pointed up to the 
flaming center gable. 

“ Look, Annette! Look up there in the 
window! ” 

My eyes followed her pointing finger. High, 
near the roof in the open space of the hay loft, 
against a background of roaring crimson fire, 
tottered a hen with wide-spread, fluttering 
wings. 

“ It's Veeky! ” I screamed. “ Fly, Veeky! 
Jump! Come, Chicky, Chicky, Chicky! ” But 
with a despairing flop and squall she fell 
back-ward into the billowing flames. Poor 
Veeky! She had so loved to scratch in the new 
hay! 

“ Oh, Miss Annette! Ain't it awful! ” 
Martha came up beside me again, wringing 
her hands and wiping her streaming eyes with 
her apron. “ What have you got there? ” 
she demanded. 

“ The pigeons* nest. Halleck saved it.” 

“ Bless the child for bringing out the poor, 
helpless things! ” Martha took the birds out 
of my hands and began mothering them against 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


163 


her bosom. The fire grew hotter and we had 
to move back. 

The main peak of the roof sagged, cracked, 
collapsed. The flames twisted and swung, 
leaping higher with a surge of smoke and shin¬ 
ing sparks. As the burning cinders fell about 
us in showers, I heard Dad say, 

“ I'm 'feared them sparks '11 fall on that 
outside stack; and if it goes, the cow barn '11 
go surer'n hell." 

I clutched Celia’s arm. “ Heavens! Is every¬ 
thing going to burn? " 

I saw Halleck's face for an instant in the fire 
glare, intent, then he swung around. 

“ Get the blankets out of the bunk house, 
wet 'em and cover the stack. And let's get the 
cows out while we can." 

The men ran to the bunk house and returned 
with armfuls of heavy comforts and blankets. 
These they wet in the irrigating ditch close by 
and spread on the stack. Three of the men 
got up on the cow barn and patrolled the roof 
for burning brands. 

As one fell, it was extinguished with the 
water the rest of us handed up in buckets. We 
women could bring water, and how we worked, 
running back and forth. Celia's white dress 
was a muddy ruin, and I could hear Martha's 
hoarse breathing as she stumbled past me. 


164 SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ You ought to stop, Martha,” I gasped. I 
knew she must be about all in, for my knees 
shook under me and the buckets of water 
seemed to weigh a ton. 

At last the fire burned itself out, and the 
blazing brands ceased to fall. Dad told us we 
needn't carry any more water. We all stopped 
and looked at each other, a wet, draggled bunch 
beside the dying fire. 

As I looked at the smoking ruin of my barn, 
I thought of all that hay, and poor old Yeeky. 
I wanted to sit down and howl. But it wasn’t 
time to howl. It was to think of making 
people comfortable. Celia looked ready to 
drop, and I knew by the droop of Martha’s 
eyelids that her head was beginning to ache. 
The men too, looked wan and tired under the 
soot on their faces. Paul came up to me 
saying: 

“ Sis, these men haven’t any beds.” 

I turned toward them. “ We have plenty 
of room. Come into the house to sleep.” 

They looked at each other awkwardly, then 
down at their wet and blackened clothes. I 
saw that they did not want to accept my invi¬ 
tation. 

Halleck spoke for them all. 

“ Somebody ought to sit up and watch the 
fire, a wind might come up. We can dry our 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


165 


blankets by the heat. We’re too dirty to come 
into the house.” 

“ Would you rather? ” I said. “ It doesn’t 
seem right when you are all so tired. I can’t 
thank you all enough for saving the horses — 
and everything.” I was about ready to cry. 

Dad patted me on the shoulder with his sooty 
hand. 

“ That’s all right, Sissy. You git on and go 
to bed. You’re all tuckered out — all of you.” 
He included Paul in the paternal sweep of his 
hand. 

“ I’m so sorry about Veeky,” I lamented. I 
happened to glance at Halleck. 

He shook his head solemnly. “ The Federal 
Dry Agents have sure lost a good pal! ” 

I laughed hysterically. 

Paul said, “ Come on, Sis. Celia’s all in.” 

We said good night and went. Once we 
looked back. The men were all busily propping 
their bedding up on sticks, a curious scene of 
big black squares and black legged silhouettes 
against the smouldering red ruins. 

Paul told us that the men all blamed Littrel 
for the fire, as he was smoking in the hay mow 
when he pitched down hay to his team. Dad 
had cautioned him, but he had laughed in his 
smart Alec way and told Dad to go comb what 
was left of his hair. 


166 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

The next morning after breakfast Paul took 
the men into town. They all came except — 
Littrel, and told me good bye. He had very 
little to say, and we decided, if he wasn’t guilty 
of the fire, he acted awfully conscious about it. 

Later in the day Francis Boalt, having heard 
of the fire, came over. Celia had remained all 
night, but went home during the forenoon. 
Paul and I took him out to see the ruins. 

Martha, Halleck, Bob and Jan joined us. It 
was the most exciting thing that had happened 
at the ranch since old Fritz’s accident. 

The hay still smouldered sullenly, and the 
acrid smell of smoke filled the air. At Francis 
Boalt’s inquiry, I unhesitantly laid the blame 
onto young Littrel, adding viciously, “ He 
ought to be hanged! ” 

Francis Boalt agreed with me, uncondi¬ 
tionally and instanced another similar case 
that he had known. 

Bob, who was of the argumentative type 
and I thought, to annoy Francis Boalt, chose 
to take it up and defend Littrel’s possible 
innocence. 

“ But if he was seen smoking on the hay mow 
the evidence is very much against him,” said 
Mr. Boalt judicially. “ It’s the most foolish 
thing possible to do.” 

“ But that don’t prove he set the fire,” per- 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


167 


sisted Bob; “ besides they couldn’t do anything 
with him, if it was proved; he didn’t do it on 
purpose; and everybody smokes in the barn.” 

“For that very reason, it should be a punish¬ 
able offense,” stated Mr. Boalt warmly; “ be¬ 
cause they all know what risks they’re in¬ 
volving.” 

“Yes,” I broke in, beginning to realize the 
monetary loss; “ if there was some way to 
make them pay, they’d be more careful. 
There should be some way to make them 
consider the matter less lightly.” 

“ It ’ud be pretty hard on a poor devil with 
just his day’s wages,” argued Bob. “ I reckon 
Littrel was sorry enough.” 

“ Sorry? Dammit! ” Paul cut in irascibly. 
“ What does that amount to? That doesn’t 
buy anything! The confounded bounders come 
along here with the seat out of their trousers, 
and not enough in their pockets to buy a whiff 
of Durham; and if we farmers have scraped 
ten cents together, they want to destroy it, 
and expect us to like it; burn up two thousand 
dollars’ worth of property, and then be sorry! 
Confounded asses! ” 

“ Paul! ” I remonstrated. 

“ I beg your pardon, Annette.” Paul pulled 
himself up. “ But what in the dickens has 
sorry got to do with a loss like this? ” 


168 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ Regrets can never make up for material 
loss,” supplemented Francis Boalt. “ And in 
a case like this, are of no appreciable value.” 

The allusion to empty pockets and worn 
pants hit Bob pretty hard, that being very 
near his condition on his arrival. He got red 
and angry. 

“ All that ain’t proving that Littrel set the 
hay on fire,” he repeated stubbornly. “ Dad 
smoked; I smoked; and Halleck smoked.” 

Halleck turned quickly; “ You’re talking 
wild, Bob; but you make another point against 
your own argument,” he said shortly. “ You 
fellows want to smoke on the hay and if it 
burns up, it can be laid on anybody. I’ve 
never smoked around the barn or stacks since 
I’ve been here, and I’ve tried to keep the rest 
of them from doing it.” He looked directly at 
me as he spoke. 

“ Well,” I remarked; “ it’s burned anyway, 
and I suppose we can’t bring it back, no matter 
who is to blame.” I turned toward the house. 
It wasn’t very dignified standing in the barn 
lot quarreling with one’s hired men. 

“ No.” Francis Boalt followed me. “ Plac¬ 
ing the blame doesn’t help matters. Have you 
any insurance, Miss Annette? ” 


CHAPTER XIV 

SO SHE THOUGHT THE FARM NEEDED A MANAGER 

No, I didn't have any insurance except a 
trifle on the barn along with the other build¬ 
ings, but at Francis Boalt’s advice I insured 
the rest of my hay. Also I was obliged to go 
to considerable expense to build a new barn. 
But that seemed to be all in the ups and downs 
of farming, which must be taken for better or 
for worse like a life partner. 

One day while rummaging in an old desk, I 
found a little account book full of crabbed 
writing, which I recognized as Uncle Nat's. 

I turned over the leaves. It contained items 
of buying and selling, money paid and received, 
dates of disastrous frosts or snows, when time 
to plant potatoes and the record of the ground¬ 
hog days in certain years. 

Along with such odds and ends I found a 
page of 

“ Ten Don'ts for Farmers." 

They were full of pith and wisdom. 

“ Don't fail to be proud you're a farmer. 

“ Don't bite easy. 

“ Don't plant more than you can take care of. 


170 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ Don’t raise more stock than you can feed. 

“ Don’t fail to get married. A farmer needs 
a working partner. 

“ Don’t treat your bills like your wife’s rela¬ 
tions; meet them promptly and have it over. 

“ Don’t be too generous with the man who 
owes you; maybe the man you owe needs it 
worse. 

“ Don’t squeeze the eagle ’till he hollars, but 
hang onto his tail ’till he promises to bring 
home a mate. 

“ Don’t fail to speak well of your farm; 
you’re part of it. 

“ Don’t neglect to woo your farm like a 
sweetheart, visit with it like a neighbor, take 
care of it like a mare in foal, and work it like a 
dog. 

“ Don’t neglect farm management. If you 
can’t do it, get help.” 

I transferred the book to my own desk and 
pondered over the advice, trying to decide which 
one of the maxims hit me most specifically. I 
felt perhaps the last was the one designed for 
me. If poor old Uncle Nat could come back 
and view my futile attempts at farm manage¬ 
ment, I am afraid he’d be reluctant to return 
to the joys of Paradise and leave his beloved 
farm in my bungling hands. 

“ If you can’t do it, get help.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


171 


At this moment I heard Halleck Trent’s 
cheerful whistle as he came in from the barn 
and paused at the kitchen door. I went in to 
see what he wanted. 

He stood outside the kitchen door bare 
headed, his face more boyish looking than on 
the first day he had come. He carried a hatful 
of eggs which he had found in the stack. As 
he transferred them from his hat into the basket 
that I held out to him, I said: 

“ You seem to know a good deal about farm¬ 
ing, Halleck; did you ever have anything to do 
with the management of a farm? ” 

“ Yes, once.” He hesitated. “ I sort of run 
a ranch for an old man for a couple of years.” 

“ Did you give satisfaction? ” I enquired. 

“ Er — I guess I did — for a couple of 
years.” 

“ What happened after that? ” 

“ Well, you see, Miss Torrel,” Halleck Trent 
laid the three last eggs into the basket and 
shook the straw out of his hat. “ He was an 
old man with a young wife; and that’s generally 
a hard combination for a young fellow to buck.” 

I smiled. “ Why? ” 

“ Old men are always jealous,” he said wisely. 

“ Of young men? ” I asked. 

He nodded, his face serious, yet frank as a 
child’s as he turned and sat back against the 


172 SOIL, THE MASTER 

edge of the kitchen table. He explained in¬ 
genuously. 

“ They haven’t any sense either, and they 
don’t believe in themselves like — well like 
young fellows do. Their day is past, you 
know. In this case he was old, cranky and 
rich, and she was young and pretty. Her 
folks made her marry him.” 

“ Poor child! ” I murmured sympathetically, 
and waited for the story. 

“ Nobody could blame her, though he was 
good to her — you know — treated her like a 
pet poodle on a string. She had plenty of eats 
and a cosy corner to lie in, but she wasn’t that 
kind. She wanted to dress and go. He didn’t; 
and he was always on hand like a sore thumb. 

“ I was sorry for her a long time before I said 
anything. Maybe she knew it; anyway she 
was young, and so was I. I don’t mean I was 
in love with her,” he said hastily. 

I nodded understanding^, and he continued. 

“ I went into the kitchen one night after 
some soap and she was sitting there crying like 
the dickens. Of course I ought to have gone 
out and shut the door; but she knew it was 
me, and began to cry worse. And — well, its 
kind of hard to get by a crying woman. She 
was the kind that crying don’t hurt much, curly 
hair and — like that.” 




SOIL, THE MASTER 


173 


“ I see.” 

“ I stopped and asked the trouble. It wasn’t 
anything new. It had just struck her worse 
than usual and — she needed a little of the 
right sort of petting.” 

“ So you gave it to her.” 

“ Well,” — He laughed and flushed con¬ 
sciously, asking with his eyes for my leniency. 
“ I forgot about my soap. I put my arms 
around her and said things I wished I hadn’t. 
But it would have been all right if the old man 
hadn’t popped in on us. What he didn’t know 
wouldn’t have hurt him. But he opened the 
door — and — of course he didn’t under¬ 
stand — ” 

“ Naturally.” 

“ He kicked over the bean pot and began to 
rave. I tried to tell the old geezer it was all 
right, Fanny was true as steel (which was the 
truth) and if he’d lay off on her for a while, let 
her have some young company and go places 
some times without him taggin’, she’d be as 
happy as a bird. 

“ But he wouldn’t listen; just kept ravin’ 
wilder the more I talked, so I said ‘ Good bye, 
Fanny,’ put on my hat and walked out. It’s 
been the high road for me since, until I came 
here.” His voice dropped as at something 
final. 


174 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ Then you’ve had some experience? ” 

“ Yes, some. I suppose you might call it 
that,” he admitted modestly. “ But,” search¬ 
ing my face; “ it wasn’t serious.” 

“ I mean at managing a farm.” 

“ Oh — Yes, I stayed there two years. 
That was after the war.” 

“ I’m just thinking,” I said. “ I’m wonder¬ 
ing — ” I paused. It seemed difficult, some¬ 
how, to promote my hired man to the dignity 
of Manager. I wasn’t quite sure of the pro¬ 
cedure. “ How would you like to take over 
the job of running this farm? ” I finished 
abruptly. 

His face flushed all over, and his clear eyes 
opened in astonishment. 

“I — I don’t know exactly what you mean, 
he stammered. “ You’re not going to quit 
farming, are you? ” 

I shook my head gloomily. “ I can’t quit,” 
I confessed; “ for a while yet. But I’ll have 
to quit — in the hole — if things don’t go 
better. I’ve farmed for nearly three years, and 
haven’t learned anything except that I don’t 
know anything. And — I’ve simply got to 
have help.” 

He looked at me with his frank, child expres¬ 
sion and said seriously: 

“ Tell me all about it, Miss Torrel.” 



CHAPTER XV 

THEN ANOTHER ONE PROPOSED 

Paul was considerably peeved over my ele¬ 
vation of Halleck Trent as Manager of the 
farm, but Halleck’s first move, after I had ex¬ 
plained everything — even to the conditions 
and restrictions of Uncle Nat’s will, was to win 
Paul’s co-operation, a thing I had never been 
able to do. 

We did not make much difference as to his 
status on the ranch. I raised his “ wages ” to 
the dignity of a “ salary ” and had him move 
into the house in a room next to Paul’s. 

I own that I was surprised at the vigor and 
hard headed sense with which he attacked the 
problem for which I could see no solution. To 
be sure, he was born on a ranch, and had had 
still more experience besides the two years on 
Fanny’s husband’s ranch. But the veneer of 
city life had attracted him, the froth of dance 
hall, bathing beach and joy parks had held 
him, and made him light and soft. Now, how¬ 
ever, he seemed to reach down into an under 
surface strata of harder substance that I had 
not been sure was there. 


176 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


His slogan was “ Tend to business,” and his 
favorite remark was: “ I want to get at it and 
get through.” Besides this prompt attention 
toward getting the work done, he suggested 
that one avenue toward success might be to cut 
down expenses. 

I agreed, and by some process unknown to 
me, he got Paul into the notion to take over the 
cows and so dispense with Jan, who, as a pro¬ 
fessional milker, demanded the wage for such. 

I hadn’t seen Paul so enthusiastic since the 
day we first heard of our legacy. Of course we 
had to get a milking machine, but that was a 
small cost compared to Jan’s yearly wage. 
Halleck said that he and Bob could manage 
the ranch work except at haying and silo filling 
time, when we would need extra men. I de¬ 
cided with so few to cook for, that I might as 
well let Martha go and save that expense. 

The plan seemed to be working very well. I 
was satisfied with my part. It was such a 
relief not to have to think all the time and plan 
about the things of which I knew so little. 

Francis Boalt disapproved of my step. He 
said, on his next visit as we sat in my living 
room, “ I regret, Miss Annette, that you 
didn’t ask my advice. I assure you, it is, and 
always will be, a great pleasure to give you the 
benefit of my older experience.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


177 


“ Thank you Mr. Boalt,” I said. “ I appre¬ 
ciate your kindness and interest, but I feel that 
if I ever expect to be able to make decisions for 
myself, I ought to begin, and not depend en¬ 
tirely on the judgment of others, no matter how 
willing my friends are to help me” 

“ But,” Francis Boalt matched the tips of 
his still scholarly fingers; “ a step such as this 
is attendant with undeniable risk. A man, 
such as this young Trent, who comes quite 
without recommendation, I understand? ” 

I assented. “ Except his record while here 
on the ranch, which has been good, so far.” 

“ These wandering adventurers often stand 
the test for a few months,” he reminded me with 
dignity; “ but when a man has reached his age 
and arrived at no particular destination, there 
is some reason. His age, as I say, is about that 
of my son. Timothy has one of the largest law 
practices in Chicago.” 

“ You forget,” I said; feeling moved to de¬ 
fend my Manager; “ Halleck Trent served in 
France during the greater part of the war. Our 
soldier boys have lost considerable time which 
they will have to make up.” 

I said this not without design, because I 
knew — Mary had told me — that Timothy 
Boalt had taken a lot of pains and trouble to 
get exemption from the draft. 


178 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ True,” he conceded. “ And perhaps we 
should consider it our duty to help them back 
to the normal plane; but I don't feel that 
you should take the risk of doing so, Miss An¬ 
nette.” 

“ As well one risk as another,” I confessed. 
“ I was daily juggling with my chance of win¬ 
ning the ranch, and I think I wasn't proving a 
very clever juggler either.” 

He lifted his palm in protest. I don't know 
what he meant to convey by this evident desire 
to stop my confession, but I stopped just to 
humor him. I think he didn’t intend, right 
then, to say the thing he did; but Halleck 
Trent's promotion evidently worried him. And 
I presume that even an elderly barrister's feel¬ 
ings might overcome him at times. 

I experienced a dreadful sensation as if I had 
been standing on solid ground and it suddenly 
began to slip. I tried to stop him. 

“ Mr. Boalt! ” I stammered. But accus¬ 
tomed to uninterrupted argument, Francis 
Boalt went right on pleading his case. My 
small attempt was futile. 

I felt dreadfully, though I couldn't see why 
he need want to get married when he had such 
a splendid cook and housekeeper as Mary. 

I sat stock still until he finished, simply over¬ 
whelmed with remorse and a feeling of base in- 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


179 


gratitude. I really liked Francis Boalt, and he 
had been so kind to Paul and me ever since we 
had come to the ranch. My face certainly 
couldn’t have inspired much encouragement, 
or hope, for I just sat there shocked and dummy¬ 
like and looked him straight in the eyes. 
Finally I said, “ I’m sorry, Mr. Boalt,” and 
shook my head. 

I felt worse when he at last understood that 
my decision was final. He rose to go. There 
were lines on his face that I had not noticed 
before, lines that spoke of age and weariness. 
Even then perhaps I did not fully realize or 
appreciate Francis Boalt’s desire and need for 
a wife. Yet I knew that life must be very 
lonely for a man like him in that old house, 
with only hired people to help him break the 
silence, waiting, as he waited for the son who 
had shaken off the shackles of the land. Per¬ 
haps there was only one thing that would ever 
bring Timothy Boalt back to the farm — for a 
few days. Then doubtless it would pass into 
other hands. 

This went through my mind as we shook 
hands in parting, he assuring me that he would 
ever consider it a privilege to assist me in any 
way possible. 

I thanked him, and remained standing there 
while he went down the steps. He struck his 


180 SOIL, THE MASTER 

heel on the last step and stumbled, catching 
himself uncertainly as an old man. 

With his criticism of Halleck Trent in my 
mind, I asked Halleck one day why he hadn’t 
got something together. 

A quick flush reddened his face, but he an¬ 
swered in his usual guileless manner, “ I never 
could see any reason for it before. Now,” he 
smiled; “ I want to beat the Odd Fellows. 
And,” he added; “ I want to help you.” 

The fall progressed, a mediocre season that 
year, with monotonous sunny days, and nights 
with a cool tang as if spring had come again. 

It rained during silo filling and hay chopping 
time and delayed the work, yet it was fine to 
start the feed and the plowing. 

With his habit of “ getting at it ” Halleck 
put on the teams and got the grain in early 
before the winter rains set in. This was very 
fortunate because when it did really get down 
to raining toward the last of December, it 
hardly stopped. 

The winter was lonely with just we four, the 
three men and myself. Celia was away in the 
city, and I missed Francis Boalt’s habit of 
calling frequently. 

To be sure he came sometimes, far between, 
but things were different. Though he tried to 
be very generous about Halleck Trent, I could 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


181 


see that the satisfaction Halleck gave in the 
new role, irked him. 

I missed Martha too, more than I had thought 
possible. I suppose it was because she being a 
woman, her interests and mine fell naturally 
along the same lines. 

I had my housework, and Dustan’s letters as 
well as those of other friends. Sometimes Bob 
came in of an evening for cards or music which 
helped the time away. Paul was fond of cards, 
and he and Celia wrote to each other; but I 
think letters aren’t as much to a man as to a 
woman. 

We read a great deal, and went to a few 
shows in Redlands. They were mostly things 
several months old in the city, but they were 
new to us. Yet the roads were bad with the 
rain and it seemed a long way to go for the 
enjoyment of an hour or two; and we had to 
consider the expense. We must make every¬ 
thing count because our time was going fast; 
we couldn’t afford to take any unnecessary 
chances. 

The lack of amusement gave me time to 
draw and paint for the mush manufacturer. 
It wasn’t the art that I had once striven for, 
but it won far greater publicity and apprecia¬ 
tion; perhaps of the only kind I should 
ever win. And the checks came in very handy 


182 SOIL, THE MASTER 

to stop leaks and gaps, and bolster up our 
fortunes. 

So we got through the winter which at last 
merged into spring. 


CHAPTER XVI 

“IN THE SPRING A YOUNG MAN’S FANCY” — 
TAKES A CURIOUS TURN 

The spring, I think, was the loveliest season 
I had ever seen, even for a Stonehouse County 
spring. 

A city spring is marked chiefly by the open¬ 
ing of the shops, by displays of spring goods and 
millinery, either in the windows or on the 
streets. True, the sky is a little bluer, the 
grass in the parks more spontaneous, the 
English sparrow more insolent, and there is the 
scent of violets in the gardens. But here the 
spring was truly an apocalypse. 

With so much moisture we had little frost. 
February continued the warm, misty rains that 
delighted the stock men, as it meant lush grass 
for the cattle. In March the flowers began to 
appear: pussy beds and johnny-jump-ups and 
the wild white cyclamen which the children 
call shooting stars. But April was the glory of 
the season, when the wild lupin ran over the 
hills in great sweeps and washes of purple like 
spilled wine from a shattered flagon. 


184 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

The oats in the field next the orchard were as 
high as a man’s waist. I loved to watch that 
grain when the wind swept through, tossing 
and twisting it in long green billows like an 
emerald sea; and underneath one knew that 
the quail was making her nest and the baby 
rabbits were hiding away from the hawks. 

One evening after an April day of cloud and 
sun, I sat alone in the living room by the fire, 
for Paul had gone some place, and Halleck was 
spending the evening with Bob, who was going 
to leave. 

I was making out Bob’s time, for the urge of 
spring was on him, and he had given notice. 
We didn’t want him to go, we all liked him; 
but he wanted to move, so that’s all there 
was to it. 

The rising wind outside kept leaping in at the 
open window rattling the blind and billowing 
the curtain into the room. It disturbed the 
light; and made the flame blacken the chimney. 

I got up to close the sash, and as I did so I 
heard the faint bleat of a lamb away from its 
mother. I listened several minutes until it 
came again, the plaintive cry of a chilled, lost 
lamb. It came from the grainfield, and I knew 
that nothing could live in that cold, wet grain 
all night. 

Closing my time book, I turned down the 


SOIL, THE MASTER 185 

light and went to my bed room after a sweater 
and cap. 

When I came back, Halleck stood at the door, 
bare headed, with the collar of his dark blue 
sweater pulled up around his ears. 

“ All alone? Where’s Paul? ” he asked. 
“ May I come in? ” 

“ Yes. But I’m just going out. One of the 
lambs is down there in the field; I hear it 
crying.” 

He bent his head to listen, then shook it 
negatively, though I could hear the cry plainly. 

“ Stand here,” I said, and he moved to my 
side. We stood there so still I could hear his 
heart beat. The cry came, plaintive, urgent. 

Halleck took me by the arm. “ Get your 
rubbers; it’s pretty wet in that grain.” 

I showed him my well protected foot, and we 
started. 

Everything had been dripping with rain, but 
the wind had shaken the foliage dry as Mon¬ 
day’s wash. Ragged gray clouds scudded 
across the sky revealing here and there a star- 
studded patch of blue. The trees against the 
horizon showed dark silhouettes, but nearby 
things were dimly visible in the gray light of 
the hidden moon. 

We said little. Halleck guided me around 
or over the puddles and across the bridge above 


186 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


the swift-flowing black waters of the creek. 

The tasseled branches of the oaks writhed 
and bent under the will of the wind, tender 
twigs, torn from their stems were flung against 
our faces. And high up in the stormy sky the 
cry of wild geese on their lonely migration 
sounded strangely through the night. 

Once I stumbled over a fallen branch. 
Halleck said, “ Watch your step,” and took me 
more closely under his protection. We walked 
through the orchard, climbed the board fence 
and stood at the edge of the billowing field to 
listen. 

The bleat came pitifully, a hundred feet to 
the left. 

Halleck took my arm again and we plunged 
into the tossing grain. The clouds parted over 
the face of the moon; at the same time a fine, 
stinging rain struck our faces. The wind 
seized my cap like a teasing school boy, and 
flung it out into the swaying grain. I felt as 
if unseen hands were making sport of me. 

“ Halleck, my cap! ” I cried, bewildered. 
Everywhere I looked the oats, waist high, bent 
and rocked and made long curving green troughs 
like the trough of an ocean wave. They rose, 
straightened and twisted again like living 
things, glistening gray-green and wet in the 
cold silver moonlight. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


187 


Halleck found the cap and set it on my head, 
pulling it down securely and tucking my ears 
under it. 

“ Stay here/’ he said. “ I’ll get lambkin. I 
know right where he is. Don’t move. I 
might not be able to find you again.” He 
laughed as one uttering a monstrous impos¬ 
sibility. 

I stood very still, in my bewilderment quite 
sure if Halleck should lose me, I should have 
to stand there and wail like the lamb until 
someone came and found me. 

He returned in a few minutes with a shiver¬ 
ing bundle in his arms around which he had 
wrapped his sweater. 

“ It’s not dead? ” 

“ No, no. Just wet and cold and hungry. 
He wants his mammy.” He took my hand 
and laid it on the bundle. I could feel the life 
pulsing through it. Then with the lamb en¬ 
circled in one arm Halleck took me on the 
other, and we went back through the wet 
orchard, the trees shedding rain drops on us 
as we passed under. 

I clung closely to his arm for the way was 
unfamiliar in the dim light, and the sound of 
the dark, cold water gurgling under the bridge 
filled me with a kind of terror, as if underneath, 
black hearted water-demons waited to reach up 


188 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


with sinewy fingers to catch my feet as we 
passed over. The lamb too, snuggled close to 
his shoulder for warmth. Zed, missing me 
from the house, came running and barking, to 
meet us; but he quieted at Halleck’s low 
command. 

I had noted before Halleck’s gentle considera¬ 
tion for helpless things, and I felt it more keenly 
that night as I saw him hold the tiny lamb to 
its mother’s warm udder until comforted and 
strengthened, it stopped shivering. We left it 
in the corral with its mother and went back to 
the house. 

At the door Halleck stopped, put his arms 
around me and said quietly, with a strong 
pleading in his voice that puzzled me, 

“ Annette, kiss me.” 

I should have felt offense at his touch, his 
request; but I did not. I don’t know why. 
Perhaps I was like Fanny. At any rate, with¬ 
out analyzing my own motive I unhesitatingly 
gave my lips to his. His face was cold against 
mine, and wet with rain. 

He opened the door for me and smiled as I 
passed through. 

“ Good night,” he said and closed the door 
after me with a sharp bang to overcome the 
force of the wind. 

I stood there for a moment after he was gone. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


189 


There was no offense in his touch; and yet — 
was it necessary or wise for me to kiss my 
Manager? 

Paul's voice broke the thread of my thought. 

“ Quite a bunch of letters tonight, Puss. I 
just got back. Where have you been? " 

I joined him at the fireplace. “ Down in the 
grainfield after one of the lambs. I heard it 
crying. Halleck went with me." I held out 
my hand for the letters. 

On top lay a thick white envelope which bore 
Dustan's aristocratic hand writing. 

The next day being bright and sunny so that 
the men could work, I saw little of Halleck 
Trent. At breakfast we met during the meal, 
and at dinner, but after supper he remained to 
tell me that Bob's time record was a little dif¬ 
ferent from mine. What should he do about it? 

Brisk and business like as usual, he drew 
Bob's account from his pocket and we went 
over the list together. 

“I'm sorry Bob is going," I said. “ He is a 
good hand. It wouldn’t be possible to persuade 
him to stay? " 

He looked at me intently as if searching for 
something underneath my remark. 

“ I don't think so," he answered, dropping 
his eyes from my face; “ especially since that 
other man came." 


190 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

He referred to a man who had come by late 
in the afternoon and asked for a job. I had 
hired him, knowing that Bob expected to leave 
in the morning. 

“ Fd rather keep Bob. Here’s the mistake. 
He’s counted two rainy days, but let it go.” I 
wrote the check, and Halleck went out. 

I washed my dishes, and when I went into 
the living room, Paul had gone out. I poked 
up the fire and sat down to read. After a while 
I heard a crash from the direction of the corrals. 
I knew what had happened. Raghorn, the 
bull, had broken the fence and was out. 

I ran out to the bunk house to tell someone; 
perhaps Paul was out there. I stopped at the 
window and looked in. The new man lay 
asleep on a bed. Paul was not there. Bob 
and Halleck sat at the table playing cards. At 
least they had been playing. Evidently they 
had stopped to smoke and talk. I heard 
Halleck say: 

“ There’s not a bit of sense in your going. 
We’re not through with you.” 

“ What are you so damn stuck on stayin’ 
for? ” retorted Bob. “ You promised me if I’d 
stay till spring, you’d quit and go North with 
me.” 

I didn’t catch Halleck’s answer. But, in¬ 
terested to see if either would influence the 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


191 


other, I remained quiet outside the window. 

The argument had evidently gone on for some 
time for Bob said: 

“ You're playin' me a dirty trick, Hal. 
Course you wouldn’t be Manager up there — " 
“ Aw, cut that out, Bob! " 

“ Then why are you just plain thro win' me 
down? " 

Halleck impatiently threw himself back in 
his chair and studied the burning end of his 
cigarette. I couldn’t see his face for the 
shadow of his hand across it. He didn't 
answer. 

“ I know," taunted Bob. “I know what's 
the matter with you! " 

“ You don't," Halleck's voice denied quickly. 
“ You're a damn poor guesser. But I'll tell 
you — " He glanced toward the sleeping man 
on the bed and continued in a sort of bravado, 
speaking in his faulty French, 

“ J’ai V intention espouser cette femme” 

He got up. “ I heard that damn bull break 
in a minute ago. We'll have to go put him out." 

I darted back from the window and flew to 
the house hot with fury. So Halleck Trent 
remained in my service because he intended to 
marry the ranch! The insolent young fool! 
Well he would get a chance to keep his promise 
to Bob. His time ceased with tonight. 


192 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

Raging inwardly and outwardly, I got out 
my time book and got so far as to make out 
Halleck Trent’s check in full. My cheeks 
flamed as I recalled Francis Boalt’s warning 
and my own unhesitating kiss the night before, 
and I almost choked in my anger. 

Suddenly I cooled. The calculating ten¬ 
dency of the Manheims came uppermost. 
Hundreds of men had had intentions that never 
reached fruition. Halleck Trent was a useful 
man to me; where could I replace him just 
now? I had told Paul that I was going to 
have this farm, nothing should stand in my 
way. Very well. Let Halleck Trent “ intend,” 
and be hanged! 

A step sounded on the porch, and my gorge 
rose again as Halleck Trent’s face showed at 
the window, for I had not lowered the blind. 
He tapped the pane. “ Time for your beauty 
sleep, Madamoiselle, 10.30.” 

His boyish face smiled at me and vanished 
into the dark with his retreat to his own room. 
I shrugged my shoulders. Well, let him in¬ 
tend! It was no time now to throw up the 
game when smiling fortune had just passed me 
the Joker. 

I tore up the check and threw the scraps into 
the fire. I had always heard there was a place 
where good intentions were put to use. 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE FARM BECOMES ENGAGED 

I didn’t kiss my Manager again right away; 
in fact, he didn’t ask me. He went on tending 
to business in a perfectly satisfactory way. 1 
rather admired his skill in playing the fish he 
supposed he had hooked. And as for the 
ranch, I had to confess it would “ be doing very 
well for itself ” if he married it. 

He was making quite a farmer of Paul, and 
he certainly knew how to handle men as well 
as horses and the internals of farm machinery. 
In truth, I felt myself a lucky person that he 
had decided to espouse my farm. 

Things were going exceedingly well. His 
methods were not so much of the new school 
of farmers with new ideas, but savored strongly 
of the old time methods, that of keeping on the 
ground, and attending to the business of farm- 
ing. 

The spring, summer and fall went by just like 
the previous ones. There is so little variety in 
the service of the soil. Yet I suppose every 
bondsman tells the same story. We were all 
swamped with work, for it was a good crop 


194 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


year. Yet I didn’t mind for my part, about 
the work, because it made my ultimate freedom 
more certain. 

Halleck Trent didn’t say anything about his 
intentions during the summer or fall. I sup¬ 
pose he waited to see if the ranch would be in 
a position for espousal. But when winter 
came with its inactivity of rainy days and the 
intimacy of long winter evenings by the fire, I 
could see him growing restless and impatient. 
It was my turn to cultivate skill in dodging the 
final issue. 

I held him off. This wooing of my ranch by 
proxy was an interesting game, and I wanted 
to be sure that my ranch had lure enough to 
hold as well as to win a husband. It wasn’t 
dignified that it should be left, at a man’s whim, 
a widow “ gone to grass.” 

But the day came, a mild February afternoon 
late in the month, when I had to face the final 
moment. 

I had gone down into the orchard to follow 
an ambitious turkey hen which was squawking 
about, preliminary to nest-building. There 
were no end of excellent places. So far as I 
could see, one place was as good as another, 
but Madam Bronze was very “ choosy ” about 
her prospective nest, and lingered hesitantly, 
speculating on this nook or that. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


195 


I dallied with her rather impatiently, for I 
had work to do in the house. In the mean¬ 
time, I went over to the almond tree which was 
just beginning to hang out its fluted blossoms. 
I wanted some for the house, but they were all 
out of my reach. Just then Halleck Trent 
came by, his gun on his shoulder, Zed at his 
heels. 

I called him and he came toward me. He 
certainly was a good looking chap, neat and 
trim in his blue flannel shirt, and his overalls 
tucked into the tops of his high laced shoes, his 
cap in his hand, for the February sun was de¬ 
lightfully warm and pleasant. 

Always eager to help, he set his gun against 
a tree and gathered the blossoms for me. But 
when he turned to give them to me I saw by 
his face that a critical moment had arrived. 
Instead of relinquishing the flowers, he caught 
my hands back with them, and with an impet¬ 
uous rush of words, he asked me to marry him. 
It was very neatly done; quite charmingly, in 
fact. 

I looked up at him with eyes unblinded, and 
I had to admit that he was a graceful and con¬ 
vincing wooer. Almost I believed the truth of 
the tremor in his voice, when he told me with 
a splendid imitation of real passion that he 
loved me. I couldn’t find any fault with his 


196 SOIL, THE MASTER 

outward appearance either. He was a little 
pale, his lips quivering slightly in his quite 
natural excitement. 

I searched him with probing eyes, trying to 
break through that admirable front; but it 
bore the test very much as the real thing. 
After all, a man must have some ability to play 
the role of an imposter; and ability was what 
I wanted on my farm, so that it might be im¬ 
portant as an Independent Principality. 

In those few moments I realized wooing as an 
art of which undoubtedly, Halleck Trent pos¬ 
sessed a natural gift. (I remembered Fanny.) 
Possibly much practice had rounded out and 
enriched his technique. My Manager, as I 
said, almost convinced me of the sincerity of 
his passion. 

I didn’t say anything, I just listened. I 
could see the interior of the bunk-house, the 
man asleep on the bed, and Bob’s sulky face. 
And I heard again my Manager’s voice: 

“J’ai Vintention espouser la ferme .” 

I thought hard. I needed Halleck Trent. 
It would soon be haying time, with the attend¬ 
ant evils of men and machinery — and that 
mower was nearly worn out. This summer was 
my last chance. No — I couldn’t let go now. 
If I refused him, in all decency he couldn’t 
stay; and — if he was so bent on husbanding 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


197 


my farm, it ill beseemed me to break up a good 
match! So when he pressed me for his answer, 
I gave him my promised word and yielded to 
his demand for a betrothal kiss. 

I wasn’t strong for lingering over lovers’ 
rhapsodies, so Zed’s warning bark was very 
welcome. Fortunately for me one of the men 
was coming up from the creek with his newly 
washed shirts and socks across his arm. 

I stopped him and we had quite a lengthy 
discussion over one of the new calves. When 
he went on, I turned and said to my ardent 
lover, “ Will you please take Zed away? I’m 
afraid he’ll annoy my turkey hen.” 

He gave me a bewildered look, but he picked 
up his gun and whistled to Zed. 

Why not? It wasn’t I that he wanted to 
espouse. 

After the preliminary hurdle was safely over, 
my Manager gave me a ring that he had brought 
from the battlefields of France; a black cameo 
with emerald eyes which he told me had been 
given him by a French officer whom he had 
found wounded, dying in a shell hole, and had 
eased his last moments. 

This was, certainly, very interesting, and I 
hesitated, under the circumstances to accept so 
valuable a token. But I argued to myself that 
I probably wouldn’t injure it by wearing it a 


198 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

few months, so I expressed my admiration for 
it and paid him in the proper manner. We 
were engaged. 

Naturally in the days that followed, he made 
several attempts to keep up the semblance of 
affection which he felt sure had won me; but 
I stopped that. It wasn’t necessary; I had 
seen how well he could do it. 

He seemed hurt on these occasions and, 
puzzled, looking at me queerly, took up his 
hat and left the house for hours. I suppose he 
was disappointed. He very likely expected to 
continue the practice of his art on me. But no 
matter what he expected. Let him go and 
caress the ranch! 

He got over it. No man with any sense 
after arriving that far, is going to jeopardize a 
forty thousand dollar ranch for the sake of a 
little mush. 

However, he apparently had no resentment 
toward me, or perhaps he was glad to be re¬ 
leased from the duties of a lover. Anyway, he 
flung himself with all vigor into the service of 
the ranch. No doubt he looked on it as his 
own already; but that didn’t disturb me. He 
would have plenty of time to find out his 
mistake. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

CELIA COMES BACK 

The Hilyards had gone from San Francisco 
early in the winter, and had been visiting in 
the South and New York since. I hadn’t 
heard from Celia for a long time, until one day 
in March I received a note from her saying that 
they were on their road back to their home in 
Los Angeles where they expected to spend the 
summer. 

I wrote at once to her address there, but I 
didn’t hear again. I spoke of it to Paul. 

Paul said diffidently that she must be very 
busy as she hadn’t written to him since Christ¬ 
mas. He didn’t say any more, but I knew that 
he wrote to her again. He nearly always got 
the mail first, but I was sure that she didn’t 
write, or he would have said so. I didn’t 
understand it, and worried over it for his sake. 
I knew that Celia meant a very great deal to 
him. 

A week later I saw in the County paper that 
the Hilyards had returned to their Stonehouse 
County ranch for a short stay, accompanied by 
Miss Hilyard’s fiance , Mr. Jerry Parker of 
St. Louis. 


200 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


With a terrible sinking feeling, I laid the 
paper down. Of course Paul would see it — 
and I knew it would hurt. But when he did 
read it, he only said: “ That’s why she didn’t 
write.” 

That very day as I was dressing after dinner, 
I heard a horse galloping up the driveway. I 
peeked out; the rider was a woman. It 
couldn’t be anybody but Celia. 

Flinging on my dress, I ran out to meet her. 
I was never so disappointed in my life as when 
I saw, not Celia, but Lucy Graham climbing 
down out of the saddle. She hadn’t been to 
the house for more than two years, and I had 
hardly seen her in that time. 

She was still a pretty girl, though she had 
lost some of her girlishness, and had sort of a 
full-blown look, not unpleasing. I asked her in. 

She came in ill at ease in her shabby blue 
denim riding habit and man’s hat pulled down 
over her dark hair. She made known her 
business at once as she seated herself. She 
wanted work. Did I need anyone to help in 
the kitchen? 

I didn’t. “ I am doing my own work,” I 
said. “ Perhaps you might get some place in 
town. Very often I see notices in the papers 
for some one.” 

Her face fell and I felt sorry for her, although 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


201 


I would not have hired her because there had 
been talk of her. Mrs. Arpsbagger had winked 
and blinked in her old woman’s way; but Mrs. 
Forest denied it. She said the girl was just 
unfortunately placed having no mother. There 
was no evil in her, she felt sure. It was just 
the custom of a small place to attack a girl’s 
virtue. 

I agreed with Mrs. Forest, for she had lived 
in the world and knew something of how to 
weigh values, but Mrs. Arpsbagger was just an 
old country woman who would call a girl 
immoral if the innocent thing was caught wear¬ 
ing her second cousin’s Frat pin. That is, if 
she had known a Frat pin wasn’t some kind of 
a squash bug! 

She rose to go, but I asked her to stay a while. 
She hesitated, standing, so I took her out into 
the garden and visited with her. Our talk, 
however was strained, disjointed. It was with 
considerable relief I saw her mount her horse 
and ride away. 

On Tuesday Paul was going into Ashby, so 
I said that I would go too. 

' “ Go if you want to, Puss,” he said wriggling 
into an old canvas coat; “ but I’m going in the 
Ford and bring out a supply of grain.” 

“ I don’t mind that,” I said cheerfully; 
“ I’m not insensible these days to the charms of 


202 SOIL, THE MASTER 

the strictly utilitarian, and you’re coming right 
back.” 

I put on my old hat and coat, for the sky 
looked stormy and the road had its usual share 
of spring mud, and climbed into the dingy, 
spattered old Ford. 

We were soon there. Paul loaded in his 
grain and I purchased some groceries. We 
looked quite like the farming pair come into 
town with all our bundles and sacks of grain 
piled in the back of the car. 

As we started to return home I said, “ Oh, we 
forgot the meat, Paul. Run in and get it. 
And Paul,” I called after him; “ get a five- 
pound pail of lard.” 

“ All right,” he answered and disappeared 
inside the butcher shop. 

I sat waiting. Directly he was gone, a big 
machine drew up to the curb and stopped be¬ 
side me. I glanced around. 

It was the Hilyards! Celia and her father, 
and a smart young man with the unmistakable 
urban stamp. They got out. Celia looked as 
lovely as ever and was beautifully dressed in a 
handsome gray coat and a hat that had surely 
come across the water. But her face was pale 
and thin. 

I sat there, suddenly conscious of my sad 
garb, the Ford delivery and all the bundles and 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


203 


piled up sacks in the back. None of the Hil- 
yard party looked in my direction, and with 
intense relief I saw them step up on the curb. 
Then Celia turned half around and saw me. 

She gave a little cry and came running back. 
I don’t think she even saw the Ford and its 
preposterous load. 

“ Father! Here’s Annette! ” she called. 
“ Oh, Jerry! Wait a minute.” 

Mr. Hilyard turned and saw everything that 
Celia had missed. With a reserved smile, he 
lifted his hat and went into the drug store. I 
hoped Jerry would follow his example; but 
naturally he couldn’t. He came to Celia’s side, 
and I had to submit to being introduced to Mr. 
Jerry Parker. He looked uninteresting, but 
his manners were irreproachable. 

Celia chattered for a minute, fast. “ Had I 
come in alone? 

“ No. Paul is with me.” I watched her 
face as I spoke, and I saw her shrink. “ He 
just went into the meat shop; he’ll be out in a 
minute,” I added. 

She glanced nervously toward the door, but 
made no move to go. 

I arranged my conversation to give her a 
chance if she wanted to escape, but she didn’t 
take advantage of it. 

I wanted them to go. I didn’t want Paul’s 


204 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

old coat and overalls and the bundle of steak 
to be contrasted with Mr. Parker. 

“ I wish Paul would hurry,” I remarked; 
“ it’s nearly noon. I think I’ll run in and tell 
him.” 

Her face changed; but I was bound to save 
Paul. I tried to open the car door, but it, of 
course, stuck like glue. Mr. Parker had a 
perfectly awful time with it; but it finally 
swung open, and I was just going to pop out 
and say charmingly, “ Come over and see us, 
Celia,” and fly into the meat shop, when Mr. 
Parker remarked in a pleasant drawl, 

“ There’s a young man coming out now.” 

I settled back into that odious Ford. “ Paul, 
Paul!” my sympathies shrieked out to him, 
for of course, it was Paul in his old coat and 
ranch shoes, with a warty bundle of meat in 
one hand and a bright looking pail of lard in 
the other. 

“ That gink — ” began Paul. And then his 
eye fell on Celia, on Mr. Parker’s comfortable 
elegance, and he stopped short. 

Celia’s face went white, but she smiled 
beautifully. 

Paul shifted his meat bundle and jerked off 
his hat, and Mr. Parker lifted his. I could 
have screamed in my chagrin. 

Paul went to the opposite side of the car and 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


205 


stowed his supplies, then he came around and 
took the hand Celia held out. 

I don’t know what he said to her, or to Mr. 
Parker, for instantly to my mind flashed the 
long forgotten picture of Mama and Papa with 
the chicken feed, the coop and the oozy oil can 
at the station along the route. 

I remembered that I heard Celia’s pretty 
laugh and again Mr. Parker’s pleasant drawl, 
and saw admiration in his eyes when I spoke, 
though I don’t know what I said. I only knew 
that Paul acquitted himself with a grace and 
charm not usually clad in bib overalls, and I 
was glad that he had come out in time to de¬ 
fend his own position. 

At last it all stopped. They turned away, 
and as the Ford backed out with its rackety 
commotion, I waved my hand to Celia. But I 
couldn’t see anything at all except the cords of 
Paul’s white knuckles on the wheel. 

Thank God! There was but a few months 
longer of such life. 


CHAPTER XIX 

“ANNETTE, I’VE BEEN WAITING” 

We didn't see anything more of the Hilyard 
party. Celia didn't come over, but after she 
went away I had a long letter from her. In it 
she told me the date of her wedding. It was 
the strangest letter I ever read from a soon-to- 
be bride. I couldn’t put my finger on any one 
thing, but the whole spirit of the letter breathed 
unhappiness. 

Perhaps I was disloyal but, feeling that I 
should probably never see Celia again, and not 
being able to make anything out of it, I showed 
the letter to Halleek. I wondered if his sim¬ 
plicity could find the meaning where my so¬ 
phistication failed. 

He read it through and handed it back. 
“ What's she marrying that fellow for? " he 
asked. 

“ Because she wants to, I suppose." 

“ It doesn't sound like it," he said briefly. 
“ Does it? " 

“ I don't know," I answered. “ Is that 
what you make out of it? " 

“ Maybe I'm wrong, but I wouldn't want 


SOIL, THE MASTER 207 

anybody to feel like that if she was going to 
marry me.” 

I wondered if he were right; if Celia was 
unhappy, and if it would be wise or not, to 
show the letter to Paul. I decided to do so. 

Like Halleck, he read it through and gave it 
back to me, but his face was white. Without 
a word he went out. I knew then that I had 
made a mistake, for he did not return that 
night. I sat up all night waiting for him but 
he didn’t come back until the next afternoon. 
And I couldn’t bear then to look into his 
eyes. 

Life wasn’t easy for any of us in the days 
that followed, for night after night Paul went 
out and I never knew when he would return; 
but I suspected where he went. 

Once I attempted to remonstrate with him. 

“ Oh damn it, Annette! ” He got up knock¬ 
ing the chair over in his violence, and left the 
house, not returning until midnight. 

I know that Paul was insane that spring. 
Nothing else could have influenced him to throw 
himself away as he did, to leave me alone day 
after day and far into the nights, at the ranch 
with the hired men, or perhaps only Halleck 
Trent, with no protection from the tongues of 
the country gossips. 

I did not hear much that was said, but I 


208 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

knew his actions robbed him of the respect of 
the men who worked for us, and I came in for 
pity and graver criticism. Halleck tried to 
talk to him I knew, but it was useless. I kept 
silent, thinking that perhaps his obsession for 
Lucy Graham would wear itself out, and he 
would come back to his right mind. At any 
rate it was only a few months until we should 
be free. I counted the days as I counted ex¬ 
penses, until the time would be up. How 
gladly I would shake myself free from this life 
and rescue Paul, no one could know save my¬ 
self who had borne the brunt for five years. 

During this time I discovered a new depth 
in my Manager, for undoubtedly he understood 
and appreciated the position I was in, and rose 
to it with the consideration that marks a man. 
It heightened my respect for him, and my 
liking. 

I did like Halleck Trent, and the only time 
he displeased me was on his occasional attempts 
to remind me of our relations toward each 
other. Sometimes I wondered what was his 
real attitude on this travesty of an engagement 
between us. 

One evening we were having supper alone. 
There were no men and Paul was gone as usual. 
I had learned not to wait for Paul. 

We had rather a silent meal, for Halleck’s 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


209 


face was unusually serious, and I was thinking 
of Paul. When I got up to clear the table, 
Halleck offered to wipe the dishes. 

“ Then you’ll be through for the night,” he 
said. 

There weren’t many dishes, so we got through 
in a few minutes, washed our hands together in 
the basin and dried them on the roller towel. 

“ The moon’s A-l tonight,” said Halleck. 
“ We’ve neglected her so long we ought to be 
ashamed to look her in the face. Come out and 
apologize to her.” 

He took my arm companionably and led me 
out into the yard. The moon, almost full, 
made a great circle of light like an increasing 
fire, and peering through the oaks made mystic 
shadows across the brick walk. 

“ It does seem a shame to neglect her, she is 
so beautiful,” I said; “ but in this mad rush 
of the simple life, I almost forget there is a 
moon.” 

I caught myself. I could see by his face 
that the moon was a dangerous topic for 
him tonight. As a preventive I began to talk 
about how the feed was coming on in the cow 
pasture. 

Halleck was not enthusiastic, I noted. But 
he took the cue politely, and while he gave me 
a detailed account of the herbage and its re- 


210 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


actionary effect on the herd, we wandered about 
the garden, arm in arm through the most 
enchanting moonlight and scented dusk. 

Continuing, just as if I expected to go on with 
this farming life forever, we disked the north 
pasture and plowed and re-seeded the east half 
of the south field. We decided to try Austra¬ 
lian Rye in the low, wet end of the west lot. 
We beefed Madge and Spot, who were rather 
erratic milkers, but agreed to give old Mattie 
another year because she had already produced 
three fine heifers that were coming into milk 
bountifully. 

We changed the irrigation flume across the 
creek, and put new stanchions in one of the cow 
barns, and computed just about how much 
hay the first crop of alfalfa should yield. I 
said, 

“ The small milk bucket has sprung a leak; 
we must charge our minds to get a new one.” 

Halleck released my arm, reached into his 
pocket for note book and pencil and jotted 
down this important item. 

I turned around. “ Let’s go in,” I suggested. 

“ What’s the hurry? We came out to pay 
our respects to the moon, and I believe she 
hasn’t even found out we’re here yet.” 

“ I have some letters to write; the moon can 
wait.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


211 


“ Maybe she’s tired of waiting, Annette.” 
An odd note rang in his voice. 

I didn’t answer. A thin, cool wind came up 
swaying the iris blooms until their fragrance 
weighted the night air. Two white winged 
moths flew round and round our heads, and a 
bird woke and began to sing sleepily. 

The moon, high up above the tree tops kept 
right on showering down her flood of golden 
light, wrapping the garden in a mellow charm. 
Quivering leaves on the low shrubs caught and 
held the light on their glossy surface, but under 
the branches lay the soft velvet mystery of 
dark. 

The beauty and magic of the common night 
silenced me, stilled my chatter of pastures and 
leaky milk pails. I remained silent looking out 
across the adjacent field to the dim outline of 
the distant mountains. 

Halleck took my arm again. Though we 
stood there together, there was no harmony of 
mind between us. 

How still the night grew! How far we were 
— how far from the life of the world! It was 
hard to realize as we stood there as much alone 
as the first man and the first woman in the first 
garden, that elsewhere, all over the world there 
was noise and glare; the swift turn of wheels, 
laughter, music, voices, the passing of eager 


212 SOIL, THE MASTER 

feet; the kaleidoscopic panorama of the civic 
centers. 

I lifted my eyes to the stars, dimly show¬ 
ing, and felt the moonlight flood my face. I 
heard Halleck’s quick, indrawn breath, his low 
voice, 

“ Annette, I’ve been waiting quite a while.” 

“ For what? ” I asked, my voice as cold as 
I felt. 

“ For you to show that you loved me even a 
little.” His voice betrayed the controlled 
undercurrent. 

I felt hostile as on that first night at the 
window. “ Does it make any difference to 
you? ” 

“ Any difference! What are you thinking 
about? ” He caught me in his arms. 

I knew what was coming. I ducked sud¬ 
denly and shrank away from him. His intended 
kiss landed on top of my head. 

I didn’t want to be kissed. I started for the 
house. 

He drew me back. “ Kiss me, Annette.” 

I didn’t want to. I simply didn’t want to! 
Yet there was something awfully attractive and 
persuasive about Halleck as I looked up into 
his boyish face. Oh, well. I suppose it 
wouldn’t kill me. Unwillingly my lips ap¬ 
proached and brushed his in passing. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


213 


His arms tightened around me. “ Kiss me! ” 
It was a man’s peremptory demand. 

Wild thoughts of rebellion wheeled through 
my mind. I dismissed them, for his arms held 
me tightly and his eyes compelled me. I looked 
him full in the face. Yes, I could do it if I 
must, but not willingly. His real fiancee , the 
ranch gave grudgingly, made one pay — 
suffer — for any favor, so would I. I deliber¬ 
ately stepped up on his foot, making the most 
of my hundred and twenty pounds. 

The moonlight showed me the shock and 
surprise of his face — the reflex of physical 
pain. His laugh followed. Catching me up in 
his arms, he lifted me and held me, looking 
down into my face with a curious expression in 
his clear eyes. 

“ Hop on the other foot, linnet, butterfly, 
gnat! You can’t hurt me.” 

“ Put me down, Halleck! ” I commanded 
angrily. But he laughed again and took the 
favor which I had haggled over in the giving. 

“ Annette, you’re the strangest girl I ever 
knew, but you’re beautiful. I love you, and 
you are mine! ” 

His voice of passionate energy filled me with 
something like alarm. I understood for the 
first time that I was dealing with a man. 

“ Put me down! ” I said fiercely. 


214 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


He gently set me on my feet. 

I flounced toward the house, realizing even 
in my hot anger, that there were some glaring 
flaws in my perfectly good plan of retaining a 
competent manager. 

Neither of us spoke. He kept his arm 
around me as we went back over the path. I 
wanted to fling it off, but I feared the conse¬ 
quences of trying. Instead I sulked, and 
walked along stiff as a ramrod and belligerent 
as a two-year-old calf at the end of its first rope. 

At the door he released me silently. He 
must have known that I was angry, but to 
make sure he did know, I turned to glare at 
him, intending to wither him with my con¬ 
centrated glance of scorn. 

He met my blighting look with a disarming 
smile, his eyes full of affection. 

My anger began to dissolve. If he played 
his part so well, why should I be so churlish as 
not to play mine? What legitimate reason 
had I to be angry, anyway? This game was of 
my own planning. I had gone into it with my 
eyes wide open; then why should I sulk that 
Halleck Trent had swept in a trick? Was it 
wise or kind to let the moon go down upon my 
wrath? 

Deciding it was not, I bent toward him and 
kissed him of my own will, and I saw his eyes 


SOIL, THE MASTER 215 

shine. Instantly I regretted it, yet for hours 
after, I heard his happy voice. 

“ Good night, Annette. Sleep tight.” 

I heard it for hours as I lay awake listening 
for the sound of the car which would bring Paul 
home. Through the long moonlit hours, for 
the golden glow poured into the room bright as 
an arc light, my mind ran over the past five 
years, barring the few months yet to come 
before Paul and I should be free. They had 
been long hard years, but the end was already 
in sight. 

That I should have my ranch I felt almost 
sure, and then Paul would come away with me 
and forget his idiotic infatuation for Lucy 
Graham and his heart-break over Celia. 

And how would Halleck Trent take the out¬ 
come of his plans? I flopped impatiently under 
my covers. Tonight’s incident I would not 
even consider. He had done and was still 
doing all that was possible to further my inter¬ 
ests, his own as well perhaps, yet no matter how 
willing a man may be to take a risk, the ulti¬ 
mate failure is very likely to sweep him off his 
foundations. He was more of a man than I 
had, at first, given him credit for. The test 
of these last months had proved that. What 
would happen when the game was played out 
and I held all the cards? 


216 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


This question returned to me again and again, 
and no answer presented itself. I could not 
even close my eyes until I heard the car door 
slam at the gate, and knew that Paul had come. 


CHAPTER XX 

AN OLD HAND COMES BACK AND ZED GOES 
• A-HUNTING 

Anxious for the time to pass, I hailed the first 
hay cutting with joy. It seemed a milestone 
reached on the last lap of the journey. 

Halleck went to Ashby after men, and when 
he returned with four, he told me that one said 
he had worked for me before. 

I wasn't particularly interested, but I asked 
the name which Halleck had forgotten. Yet 
when the men came in to supper, I looked for 
a familiar face and recognized Dick Patton. 

He was watching me out of his bold blue 
eyes, and expected some sort of a greeting. 

I shook hands with him as is courteous to a 
former employee, and I could see that he was 
glad to be back. 

It didn't take a very clever observer to note 
that he had changed considerably, for the 
worse, in his four years' absence. Men of the 
road live fast. He was older, heavier of body 
and coarser faced, with a sneer in his eyes and 
on his sensuous mouth that marred what was 
left of his good looks. 


218 SOIL, THE MASTER 

I didn’t like the way he appraised me that 
evening, nor the easy familiarity with which he 
tried to pick up the friendly footing that had 
marked his former stay. 

I returned his significant gaze coldly. It 
annoyed me decidedly, and I wanted him to 
understand I had no tender thoughts twining 
around our former intercourse. 

He understood quickly and applied himself to 
his supper and to the task of trying to find out 
Halleck’s relation to the ranch. 

In the morning, Halleck put him on one of 
the mowers. He managed to get in before the 
other men at noon and came to the well for a 
drink. 

I was there peeling apples with that same 
knife. He recognized it, and had the impu¬ 
dence to ask me how many men’s eyes I had 
put out since he left. 

I answered coldly, “ As many as before you 
went away,” and taking up my pan, went into 
the house. 

He laughed, and said after me, “ You’re 
going to pay for the eye, yet, you know.” 

I paid no attention to him. What he said 
didn’t concern me except that it annoyed me, 
as I soon saw was his design. He had a way 
of watching me until unconsciously, I gave him 
my attention, then he would look from me to 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


219 


Halleck meaningly, or questioningly, or with 
ill-concealed amusement. Or he would glance 
suddenly at me, and by some strange suggestive 
process, not by any visible means, bring to my 
mind that he expected me to pay a debt I owed 
him. 

He annoyed Halleck in countless ways, more 
direct, and made trouble among the men; 
trying to stir up something all the time. It 
was a clear case of suggested mutiny, for one 
could not point to any specific thing. 

Halleck grew impatient under it. Sometimes 
I used to see him walk away from Patton in an 
exasperated manner, yet I was sure there were 
no words between them. 

I stood him for a week and felt worn out. 
His very presence on the ranch worked on my 
nerves, and the meaning smile in his dissipated 
eyes was as annoying as a long, sharp tack in 
one’s shoe. 

“ Get rid of him, Halleck,” I said. “ He is 
trying to make trouble.” 

Halleck answered, “ He’ll be through mow¬ 
ing Saturday, and I’ll let him go. He makes 
me so confounded mad I can’t hardly keep from 
swatting him. If he annoys me any more, I’m 
very liable to knock him loose from his hat.” 

On Friday night there was a special show in 
Ashby to which all the men decided to go. I 


220 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


confess that I was impatient for them to get 
away. They all piled into the Ford and I 
heard the last snort of the engine with pure joy. 
My flagged spirits rose like an apple in the 
water. No matter how hard Pippin falls or 
how far he sinks, as soon as he gets his bearings 
he rises to the surface and rides gayly on top. 
So my spirits which had been low for weeks, 
rose and sailed around in exhilarated isolation. 

Having a bunch of men around all the time 
is about the most wearing thing imaginable. 
It’s like swarms of flies, or north wind, or the 
incessant meowing of a cat; so when Halleck 
asked me if I minded staying alone or if I was 
afraid, I didn’t tell him that I was overjoyed to 
be alone, but I did say I never thought of being 
afraid; there wasn’t any possible danger in the 
country. 

The evening being mild and warm I sat out 
on the steps in glorious solitude watching the 
last of the light die in the west. The mos¬ 
quitoes grew too friendly so I got up and went 
into my own room. 

I had forgotten to fill the lamp that morning. 
In all my five years I had never become used 
to the terrific amount of pampering a kerosene 
lamp demands before it will condescend to cast 
out its feeble ray. 

I went and filled it, wiped the smoky chimney 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


221 


and washed the soot from my hands. Having 
lit my lamp like a wise virgin I was forced to 
pull down the blind to shut out the myriads of 
tiny winged insects that swarmed through the 
screen. 

I pulled off my shoes and stockings to bathe 
my feet and legs. They still burned from the 
jabbings the stickers in the chicken yard had 
given me as I ran Madam Plymouth Rock and 
her distracted family round and round the coop 
to get them inside. 

I had to get them in because there was a 
skunk marauding about, which had caught 
dozens of chickens. We had tried every way 
to catch it, but had failed. Hateful thing! I 
was just about sick over the number of chickens 
it had killed. 

Putting on a fresh pair of shoes and stockings, 
I composed myself for a serene evening. I 
wrote a letter to Dustan, and read an article in 
a Farm Magazine about the healthy, happy, 
care-free existence on the farm, far from the 
dusty, noisy, sin stained city. 

Zed began to bark excitedly so I got up and 
went out to see if the barn was on fire. I saw 
with relief that it looked all right, but I didn’t 
go back to the house. Zed was tearing around 
barking furiously so I helped him hunt for the 
skunk, but we didn’t find it. 


222 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


It was really a wonderful May night. The 
moon wasn’t too bright to hide all the stars, 
and a south wind, hinting of rain, blew briskly 
enough to keep the trees waving their dark 
foliage against the sky. 

The water in the creek sounded so loud, in¬ 
numerable insects chirped and frogs croaked. 

Zed ran around in a wide circle-and came 
wriggling back to me and stuck his nose against 
my knee. He missed the men, I supposed. 
Dogs hate to have the people go away. 

We sat down on the step and visited together. 
Several cars sounded on the road below but 
they didn’t come up our way. 

The clock struck ten so I said “ Good night, 
Zed,” and went to my room. 

Zed followed me to the door which opened 
directly on the porch, begging me not to go in, 
but when I did, he went off to look after his 
skunk. 

The bed looked awfully inviting. I flopped 
down on it for a minute. 

I must have fallen asleep instantly, and slept 
for — I don’t know how long. Something 
awaked me. I rolled over sleepily. The light 
still burned feeble and yellow in the room. 

I started to sit up, and then I sprang to my 
feet. Dick Patton stood in the middle of the 
room. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


223 


My first thought was that something had 
happened, an accident. 

“ Paul! ” I said. (I always thought of 
Paul.) What’s the matter? Is he hurt? ” 

Dick Patton shook his head slowly, looking 
at me with an unpleasant smile. “ Don’t pre¬ 
tend you don’t know me, as you’ve been doing 
for several days. Paul isn’t here, nor Mr, 
Trent, nor any of the rest; just you and I, 
alone. I thought this would be a good time for 
us to get acquainted.” 

I just stared at him stupidly. 

“ I happened to find out that your Manager 
intends to let me out tomorrow night, so I want 
to collect on what you’veo wed me for four 
years.” 

My brain blew clear. “ You must be crazy! ” 
I said. 

He smiled a slow, ugly smile. “ Nevertheless 
you’re going to pay me for that eye.” 

“ Please don’t begin on that again , I beg of 
you.” 

“ Please, pretty please! ” He grinned hate¬ 
fully and came toward me and put out his 
hand. “ The poor man with only one eye! 
Are you going to pay me, Annette? ” 

“ I am not,” I said flatly. I stepped back 
looking straight at him; “ And if you touch me, 
I’ll put out every eye you have left.” 


224 SOIL, THE MASTER 

He laughed, vastly amused, and kept ad¬ 
vancing, with the laugh simmering down to a 
wicked leer. 

“ No, you won’t; because you’re afraid of 
me.” 

“I am not,” I said coolly. But I kept re¬ 
treating; I had to. “ Why should I be afraid 
of you? I presume you’re civilized.” 

“ No matter. You are afraid of me.” 

“ I am annoyed at your being here, but I 
am not afraid of you,” I repeated. 

“ Why? ” There was just a shade of doubt 
in his former assured tone, that did not escape 
me. 

“ Because you have nothing to gain by harm¬ 
ing me, and much to lose. And you have too 
much sense not to see the wisdom of that.” 

He just looked at me from under his eyelids 
and kept coming towards me. 

I had to keep moving, but I wasn’t afraid, 
because I knew that he had been decently 
raised and I knew too, that he recognized me 
as a woman of the class to which he had origi¬ 
nally belonged. I felt that he had no wish to 
harm me, only to annoy me, and convince me 
of his power to harm. 

“ You’re figuring on the appeal your beauty 
and defenseless condition makes, I suppose,” he 
sneered. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 225 

“Not exactly,” I answered quietly; “ I am 
depending on your common sense.” 

“ Figure again, beautiful Annette. I haven’t 
had any sense since I met you.” He fixed his 
eyes on me in the way a cat looks at a bird 
before it jumps on it, and kept coming towards 
me. 

I had to retreat, and we went this way twice 
around the room. 

It was nerve racking. I couldn’t stand the 
silence. 

“ We’re being ridiculous! ” I said. 

“You couldn’t be,” he retorted mockingly. 

I resisted my desire to slap his insolent face 
wondering how long I could keep up my calm 
front. Surely the men would come soon. I 
wanted to dash out at the screen door, but I 
couldn’t see that I would be any better off 
outside. And that would only precipitate 
matters, whatever he had in his mind. I 
strained my ears for the welcome clickity-clack 
of the Ford. 

“ It would please me very much better,” I 
remarked; “if you would go away. This 
isn’t particularly entertaining to me.” 

He stuck his grinning face close to mine. “ I 
haven’t begun to be entertaining yet.” 

There was something decisive in the ugly 
look he gave me. A cold chill ran up my spine, 


226 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


and I couldn’t think quickly of what to say 
next. I didn’t take my eyes off of him, but I 
strained my ears again for the Ford. I could 
only hear Zed running and barking, and feel 
the jar of the floor as he leaped on the porch 
and came tearing past the door in the full 
swing of the pursuer, giving frantic tongue as 
he sped after his prey. 

“ Oh! ” I screamed. “ There’s the skunk!” 
Zed’s found it! Catch it! Catch it! Sic’ ’im, 
Zed! Get it!” 

Dominantly waving Dick Patton out of my 
path, I plunged out through the screen door 
after Zed, clapping my hands and shrieking 
maniacal encouragement. 

At the corner Zed nabbed his fleeing game, 
and a pungent odor filled the air. Zed worried 
and shook his prey, stopping at intervals to 
roll his face in the grass, while I danced around 
and screamed at him, “ Kill it! Kill it! ” Zed 
responded to my cries and his own instinct, 
until the varmint lay inert, and he went to roll, 
and roll, and bury his outraged nose in the 
dirt. 

Then I remembered Dick Patton. I swung 
around from the evil smelling corpse, to find 
him beside me. 

“ Wasn’t that lucky! ” I exulted; “ that Zed 
got it? He’s been looking for it all evening. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


227 


It’s killed more than fifty chickens — ” I 
paused suddenly conscious in my excitement 
how awfully funny Dick Patton looked —.like 
the tag end of something. 

He laughed shortly, eyeing me in a sort of 
grim speculation. 

Zed came back again and grabbed his foe to 
see if it were truly dead, and I heard the long 
drawn, wheezy cry of the Ford horn. Halleck 
always blew it to let me know that he was 
coming. 

“ There are the boys,” I remarked in a relief 
I carefully kept out of my voice. Patton 
wheeled curtly. “You win! ” he said, and 
stalked around the house and disappeared; 
while I hugged Zed, odor and all, and laughed 
and laughed. When the boys arrived, the house 
was dark and still, and I was cuddled in my bed. 


CHAPTER XXI 

HALLECK GAVE DICK PATTON HIS LESSON 

Dick Patton looked both foolish and sullen 
when we met next morning, and I nearly 
laughed in his face when I remembered the 
absurd ending to his disgusting heroics. The 
boys asked him when and how he got home. 
He told a very creditable lie, at least he lied 
about the time he came. His face turned 
quite red when I graphically described, at the 
breakfast table, Zed’s remarkable achievement 
in the night. He didn’t say anything about 
his having been an eye witness, and neither did I. 

After breakfast he came out to the milk house 
where I was washing the separator. I glanced 
up as the door darkened. 

He looked positively silly, but he said he 
hoped I’d overlook his mistake of the night. 
He’d had a couple of shots of bootleg and it 
went to his head. 

I knew perfectly well that he was lying; 
there wasn’t anything dazed about his actions. 
I told him I wasn’t letting it trouble me in the 
least. 



SOIL, THE MASTER 229 

afraid of me, Miss Torrel. I wouldn't hurt 
you." 

“ I'm sure I never thought of being afraid of 
you." I said coldly; “ but sometimes perfectly 
harmless animals can make themselves very 
unpleasant." 

He was furious I could see, as he banged the 
door and went out. But I didn't care at all 
how he took it. I went on scrubbing separator 
parts. Presently I heard the hum of the 
mower. 

I listened thankfully. If everything went all 
right he'd finish by night; and he’d certainly 
not work for me again! 

It began to get warm and about ten o'clock 
the north wind came up. By noon it was 
blowing a gale that undoubtedly would have 
scored a rise out of Griselda. Its scorching heat 
made the plants all wilt dejectedly, and set my 
head to aching. Matters weren’t improved 
when I saw Patton bring the mower in to the 
shop at noon. 

That meant delay. I heard him tell Halleck 
that the sickle guard was loose; nothing serious 
but it needed to be fixed. 

Everybody was off key at dinner, a tribute to 
the wind, and Patton was as grouchy as could 
be. He never looked at me, and I paid him 
the same compliment. 


230 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


Halleck kept looking at me during the meal. 
I think he knew something had disturbed me, 
but I didn’t say anything to him, or Paul 
either, about Patton. There’s never any use 
in getting men started. 

After dinner they all went outside to smoke 
and talk under the big tree in front of the shop. 
Paul went with them, but Halleck stayed a few 
minutes to ask me if I felt badly. 

“ No,” I said; “ just a trifle upset, the wind 
is so disagreeable.” 

“ It is bad,” he said. “ Perhaps it won’t 
blow tomorrow.” He turned away to join the 
men. 

They all lay stretched on the ground, in 
various attitudes, except Paul and Patton who 
stood near the mower talking. Patton was 
rolling a cigarette. 

As Halleck left me I went to the window 
where I could watch them unobserved, for I 
was working up another series of drawings. 

I watched Halleck’s alert, soldierly figure as 
he approached Patton. 

Paul moved on a few feet. I was just think¬ 
ing what a good composition group, when 
Patton gave Halleck a sneering look and said 
something. 

I saw Paul turn abruptly, but quick as the 
dart of a snake, Halleck’s right fist caught 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


231 


Patton in the face and he crashed over. His 
head struck against the corrugated iron wheel 
of the mower with a sickening smash, and he 
slithered to the ground in a limp heap. 

Paul leaped to him, and the men all sprang 
up. Halleck’s white, shocked face turned 
toward the house for an instant. 

I ran out. Patton lay pale and twitching, 
his mouth opening and shutting like a dying 
fish. I heard one of the men say, 

“ By God! You’ve done for him! ” 

“ Paul!* Halleck! ” I cried. 

“ Go into the house, Annette,” commanded 
Halleck, and I obeyed. 

But I saw him kneel, tear open Patton’s 
shirt and feel his heart. He lifted the limp 
head, and the blood ran down on his hands. 

“ For Christ’s sake! Let’s get him to a 
doctor! ” 

Paul started for the garage, but it was Hal¬ 
leck who outstripped him, and brought the car 
out with a rush. It was he who showed them 
how to make an ambulance bed in the back, 
and helped lift Patton in. He made one of 
the men get in beside Patton’s inert body. 

He waved Paul aside and got in behind the 
wheel, and jerked open the other door for Paul. 

“ Come with me,” he said, and threw in the 
clutch. “ Look out for your hat.” 


232 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

The driveway gate was standing ajar and he 
crashed right through, never pausing. The 
splintered boards flew, while I stood on the 
house porch wringing my hands and demanding 
of God to give Halleck time. 

I heard the car thunder across the loose 
boards of the little bridge by Cattman’s, and 
then Mrs. Cattman’s ring — I always knew it 
— calling up to ask what was wrong. Nothing 
escaped Mrs. Cattman. 

I told her that one of the men had got hurt 
on the mower. Of course she thought he was 
all cut to pieces, and I let her think so. I 
hung up and left her talking and went outside. 

Gene, the old man had come to the well. I 
asked how it happened. It was all so quick 
and terrible! 

He didn’t know any more than I did, possibly 
not as much, for I had seen Halleck look toward 
the house and I felt the offense, whatever it 
was, concerned me. 

The other two men came up and we talked 
the matter over. We were all mystified. I 
was the only one who had seen it, and the men 
declared Halleck had not said a word of ex¬ 
planation. I knew he hadn’t, for I had heard 
his every word. 

Finally they all went off to work and I went 
in to wash the dishes. I don’t know how I got 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


233 


through the intervening hours until Paul's 
return, for I kept hearing over and over again 
old Gene's “ By God! You've done for him! " 
I knew that Halleck thought so too. I listened 
for the telephone message, but nothing came 
except calls from the neighbors who had heard 
about the accident by listening in. 

Toward evening Paul came, he and the man, 
Gus. Paul made haste to tell me that Patton 
was still alive, but he had concussion of the 
brain. 

They had taken him first to the doctor in 
Ashby, but at his advice, had rushed him on to 
the hospital in Redlands. And afterward 
Halleck had given himself up. 

I felt something terrible clutch me inside. 

“ What will they do with him, Paul? " 

“ Well, of course — if Patton dies, it's — 
manslaughter." 

“ Is — is he in — prison? " I faltered. 

“ No, no." assured Paul. “ He had to give 
bond, of course. I went his bond. He’ll be 
back tomorrow. It's hard luck! " 

Paul walked back and forth across the dining 
room floor. 

“ Halleck was in the right. If ever a man 
needed a wallop, Patton did. I was starting 
for him when Halleck beat me to it. It was 
just hard luck that his head hit that wheel." 


234 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


I dared not ask Patton’s offense; but Paul 
stopped his pacing for a moment. “ Did Pat¬ 
ton ever annoy you in any way, Annette? ” 

I told him of the two instances. “ Don’t 
tell Halleck,” I urged. 

Paul ground his teeth with an oath. “ It 
won’t be necessary if Patton lives, but if it 
comes to a trial, these things will help Halleck.” 

“ Paul! ” The horror of my own situation 
dawned on me as I sat there looking at Paul. 
Not but what I was willing and glad to help 
Halleck, but to stand in the witness dock with 
eyes, and eyes, and more eyes on me, — eager 
ears and busy tongues! And the newspapers! 

This terrible life! Where else could a woman 
like me have become embroiled in such a vulgar 
predicament save here on the land, where 
primitive conditions brought out by force of 
like attraction, primitive emotions in men? 

Then, too, I was not insensible to Halleck’s 
position. I recalled his piteous, shocked face 
at that moment when he had realized what had 
happened. So I knew whichever way things 
turned, though I might shrink in a cowardly 
way, I would be hard put to find a way out. 
There was no way. I should have to stand by 
him until it was all settled. I was caught in a 
web of my own weaving, and it was liable to 
tangle me up into a very humiliating situation. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 235 

I brought my mind back to the present diffi¬ 
culty. 

“ Is there anything we can do to help, Paul? ” 
Paul shook his head. “ It all depends simply 
on whether he lives or dies. And Puss, the 
devil of it is — they found an identification 
card on him, and he belongs to that Pahtune 
family in San Francisco. You know, Serena’s 
friends. Do you remember during the war, 
the fight over Richard Pahtune’s exemption; 
how they moved heaven and earth and got him 
exempted? Well — he’s Richard Pahtune, old 
Rodney Pahtune’s son; Geraldine’s brother. 
Can you beat that! ” 


CHAPTER XXII 

IN WHICH DICK PATTON DOESN’T DIE 

Halleck came home the following day, which 
was Sunday, before supper. He came in look¬ 
ing terribly white and disheartened, and so 
piteous! To my mute look of inquiry he said: 

“ He is still alive; just alive. They have 
sent for his people.” 

He sat down wearily and leaned his head 
against the high back of the chair. 

I went to him, and put my hand on his fore¬ 
head, stroking back his hair. 

Reaching up, he took my hand and pressed 
my wrist against his face. It was a sort of 
pitiful, childish gesture. 

Paul came in and I went out to get supper. 

Halleck refused supper and went to his room, 
but I followed him with a cup of hot coffee. He 
took it from me at the door and tried to drink 
it, to please me. He handed back the cup, 
half full and said, “ I’ll do better in the morn¬ 
ing.” But Paul, whose room was next to his, 
said he walked the floor all night. 

He sat down to the table in the morning and 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


237 


took some food on his plate, but he ate very 
little of it. After breakfast he went out into 
the field with the men. 

As soon as I could get the hospital, I called 
up and asked about Patton. 

The attendant said there was no perceptible 
change; he was still alive. 

The men were getting in the hay and Halleck 
worked with them, coming in at night so 
wretched looking, that I begged him to take a 
little rest. 

“ Oh, God! I can’t rest.” He went outside. 
About midnight I heard him come in. 

The third night I was on the point of send¬ 
ing for the doctor, he looked so worn and ex¬ 
hausted. Paul said roughly, for men always 
have to be hard with each other if they’re 
sorry: 

“ If you don’t pull up, Hal, you’ll beat 
Patton to it.” 

Halleck laughed wretchedly and went into 
his room. He wouldn’t hear of my sending for 
the doctor. 

I called up the hospital again. Patton was 
still holding on. This seemed like hope to me. 

The day had been terribly warm for May. 
After I finished my work, I went to Halleck’s 
door. I could hear his halting steps as he 
paced around the room like a sick horse that is 


238 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

afraid to lie down for fear it can’t get up again. 

I knocked gently and said, “ Halleck, open 
the door.” 

He paid no attention so I turned the knob 
and looked in. 

He turned around. “ Is that you, Annette? 
What do you want? ” 

“ I want to do something for you. Why 
don’t you leave your door open? It’s terribly 
hot in here.” 

I opened the windows and let in the cooler 
air of the evening. I insisted that he change 
his clothes which were wet with perspiration, 
while I went after a basin of water. 

When I returned, he stood in the open door 
in clean, dry clothes fumbling with the buttons 
of his cuffs. 

I took hold of his arm and led him outside. 
Making him lie down on the porch couch, I 
washed his face and hands in cool water and 
combed his hair smooth. 

He lay quiet under my hands while I fussed 
over him. The lines on his face softened, mak¬ 
ing him look awfully childish and dependent. 
Once his fingers closed round mine as a baby’s 
do, and often he opened his tired eyes and fixed 
them on my face. It was hard to believe, 
looking at him then, that he was a man who 
had taken a man’s part in the world. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


239 


I thought he went to sleep for a few minutes, 
but soon he opened his eyes and said: 

“ I feel better. You’re a good doctor, 
Annette.” 

“ Shut your eyes then, and sleep.” 

Instead of closing his eyes, he searched my 
face, saying huskily: 

“ Annette, if — if things go — wrong, I’ll not 
hold you.” 

I hoped he couldn’t see the hot flush that 
burned my face in the dusk. 

“ Don’t think about that now,” I said gently. 
“I’m sure everything will be all right. They 
must be,” I added fiercely. 

“ Anyway my head doesn’t ache as it did. 
Thank you. You’d better go to bed. It’s 
getting cold.” 

The night air was growing chill as May 
nights at the ranch were apt to be. I got up 
and went after a blanket. This I spread over 
him, bade him good night and went to my own 
room. 

In the morning Paul said that Halleck moved 
into his room in the night. He must have slept 
for it was past noon when he came out looking 
more like himself. He ate something. This, 
with his long sleep did him a lot of good. In 
the cool of the evening he and Paul and I, 
drove to Redlands to see about Patton. 


240 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


It was an evening very much like the one 
which had so charmed us the first day we came 
to the ranch, though it was earlier in the year. 
The air was fresh and cool; there were wonder¬ 
ful reflections in the river, and magnificent 
colors in the clouds in the west. 

We were almost cheerful on the road, but fell 
silent the nearer we approached Redlands and 
what might be there waiting for us. 

We stopped in front of the hospital. It was 
neat and white with a pretty grass plot 
and flowers around it. I got out and 
went in because I was sure no one there knew 
me. 

The plump Matron came to the door. At 
my inquiry she said: 

“ He regained consciousness at noon. The 
doctors feel reasonably sure the danger is over. 
The father and sister are with him at present. 
Do you wish to come in? ” 

“ No, thank you,” I said. “ Perhaps I’ll 
call again.” I hastened out to tell Paul and 
Halleck the good news. 

The blood rushed over Halleck’s pale face. 
He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, 
yet his eyes that looked into mine still held the 
pain of uncertainty. 

“ Oh, thank the Lord, Sis! ” said Paul in in¬ 
tense relief. “ He ought to die, confound him! 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


241 


But of course, under the circumstances, we 
don’t want him to.” 

“ Oh, God, Paul! ” Halleck burst out; “ let 
him get well if he can.” 

“ He’s going to, I’m sure,” I said with convic¬ 
tion. “ Oh Paul — Oh Halleck — I’m so glad!” 
I broke down and cried as I got back into the 
car. I felt so happy for us all. 

We were quiet but cheerful on the way home. 
And when I got out of the car at our own door, 
keenly conscious of the great load lifted off us 
all, I turned back and kissed both Paul and 
Halleck good night. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

FRANCIS BOALT MUST GO TO CHICAGO 

The whole affair which promised to be so 
terrible, turned out very well. The reunited 
Pahtune family left the hospital a week later 
and returned to the city. 

A letter from Serena informed me that Geral¬ 
dine’s brother Richard had just come home 
from a long trip through South America. 
Among other adventures he had had a thrilling 
experience with a gang of Bandits on the 
Border. She said he was an awfully interesting 
man, and his account of the fight with the 
Outlaws was hair-raising. He was quite se¬ 
verely wounded and expected to remain at 
home until he recovered. 

I didn’t enlighten Serena. She was perfectly 
capable of looking out for herself, and besides 
maybe she’d take Dick Patton on and reform 
him! 

It took some time for Halleck to recover 
himself; he was very grave and quiet for weeks 
after. But the incident had a splendid effect 
on Paul. Being thoroughly frightened at the 


243 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

possibility of a catastrophe to me, he stayed at 
home and attended to his share of the ranch 
business. I was so happy over this, that I was 
glad the affair had occurred. 

Since we had set the fashion, things began to 
happen at all the ranches in the neighborhood. 

The worst thing was that poor old Mrs. 
Arpsbagger, while chasing a hen, fell down and 
broke her arm, and had to go to the hospital 
for a week. 

It was most unfortunate, and I felt sorry for 
Mr. Arpsbagger too. No danger of farmers 
sending their wives away for their own comfort. 
They are the most forlorn creatures imaginable 
when their women folk are gone. 

We went over one evening, and I took him a 
pie. It seemed to please him so much that we 
stayed and visited a while. 

He took us out to see his chickens, dozens of 
lovely young fryers and well bred biddies. 
He offered me a setting of White Wyandotte 
eggs, which was very nice of him, for his chickens 
were prize winners at the County Fair. 

Little Mrs. Keene presented her husband with 
twins, in addition to the three children already 
in the family. I was rather amazed when I 
heard it, because I had seen her out helping 
Mr. Keene hoe corn not very many months 
before. 


244 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


The Forests sent their eldest boy to the Davis, 
the State Agricultural College, in northern Cal- 
fornia and Lucy Graham got a position in a 
restaurant in Redlands. I was glad to hear 
this, because the poor girl evidently wanted to 
get something to do very much. 

Paul saw Mr. Carmichael in town one day. 
He had just imported a partner, a young Irish¬ 
man with a rare brogue. Mr. Carmichael asked 
Paul if he might bring the Import over some 
time. 

I hadn't seen the Earl's son, since the night 
he had told me about his new ranch, so when 
he came over one evening bringing Terence 
O'Malley, I was pleased to see him. He had 
apparently recovered from any wound he 
might have sustained, and was still argument¬ 
ative over forage crops and legumes. 

We had a very pleasant evening. Mr. 
O'Malley was new and amusing as could be. 
He told me that he expected his sister out in 
the spring, so I felt confident that Mr. Car¬ 
michael's future was assured. 

Francis Boalt, too, had his share in the Pas¬ 
sing Show, for events required that he present 
himself in Chicago on the occasion of Timothy 
Boalt's wedding. 

Paul, Halleck and I went over to see Mr. 
Boalt before his going. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


245 


Tim’s move had hit him awfully hard. He 
looked thin, and his gray mustache drooped dis¬ 
consolately as he urbanely shook hands all 
around and invited us to seats. 

Mary wasn’t quite through with her supper 
dishes, so I went in to visit her. 

She bubbled over with excitement. Tim was 
marrying a rich society girl whose father had 
made a million in pork. 

“ But Mr. Boalt is terrible disappointed,” 
said Mary. “ He don’t even want to go back 
to the wedding; but he’s going.” 

“ What are you going to do while he is 
gone? ” I asked. “ You’d better come and 
stay with me.” 

“ Oh, but I’m going too,” Mary announced 
with pride. “ Tim sent me — I must show 
you — ” Mary jerked her hands out of the 
dish water and wiped them carefully on her 
apron. She trotted to the cupboard where she 
evidently kept her treasure for ready and fre¬ 
quent reference. 

With careful hand she brought out a thick 
white envelope addressed to Mrs. Mary Marks. 
From this she extracted Timothy Boalt’s en¬ 
graved wedding invitation, and loftily held it 
out to me. 

“ Oh, Mary! That’s beautiful! ” I exclaimed. 

“ Ain’t it swell! ” said Mary beaming. 


246 SOIL, THE MASTER 

I admired it duly. “ So you’re going too, 
Mary? ” 

She ducked her fat chin. “ You see, Tim 
wants his father to come back there and go 
into the law business again.” 

“ Will he do it? ” 

She shook her head as she returned the 
wedding invitation to the cupboard shelf. “ I 
don’t know, Miss Torrel. He’s all broke up. 
You’d better go in there and talk to him.” 

I went into the sitting room. Evidently the 
conversation wasn’t going very briskly. Paul 
and Halleck turned over the leaves of a Snap¬ 
shot album together, and Francis Bo alt, apart, 
sat with his finger tips fitted together, appar¬ 
ently in deep thought. 

The boys looked up in relief at my entrance, 
and almost directly Francis Boalt spoke of his 
son’s approaching marriage. 

“ I regret it very much,” he said. 

“ Mary says that he is getting into very 
advantageous connections,” I reminded him. 

“ From the average worldly standpoint, 
yes,” he acquiesced; “ but to me it means that 
Timothy will never return to the land.” 

“ Perhaps,” I consoled; “ even if he does 
not; his son may. These things often go in 
cycles.” 

“ I haven’t time to wait for Timothy’s son. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


247 


And granting that that should happen, the land 
will be alien to him. It will have missed one 
generation.” 

He sat silent for a while. I couldn’t think of 
any answer to this, and the boys returned to 
their album. 

He continued. “ It is a great struggle; this 
pitting one’s self against the land. But we 
grow old and tired. The land never grows 
tired — ” 

“ It gives the other fellow the back ache,” 
interjected Paul flippantly, looking up. 

“ Paul,” I said, partly to excuse Paul and 
partly to enliven the situation which was 
getting awfully depressed, “ isn’t a * dyed in 
the wool ’ farmer, Mr. Boalt.” 

“ No.” He glanced at Paul tolerantly. 
“ And it’s a serious undertaking, to be taken 
seriously.” 

“ You bet, it looked serious for us,” again 
contributed Paul. 

“ A fellow can get by on the land if he attends 
to business,” Halleck spoke up. “ Of course he 
has to work hard, but he’s always got some¬ 
thing under and back of him. Where are you 
in the city when you lose your job? (And it 
isn’t always a fellow’s fault if he does.) You’re 
facing a sour-faced landlady requesting your 
month’s rent in advance — or the Park bench.” 


248 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

Francis Boalt nodded approval at him. 
“ It’s a grand struggle,” he pursued; “ but 
it’s a fight for young blood, not old.” 

I shivered at this continued repetition A-It 
sounded vampirish, this insatsiable hunger of 
the soil for hot young blood. Not liking the 
discussion, I said: 

“ You are going back to attend the wedding?” 

“ I shall. And I shall probably not return 
here,” he answered with impressive finality. 

“ What will you do with the ranch? ” I asked. 

He waved his hand impotently, and I saw 
that the question hurt too deeply for an answer 
at that moment. I was glad when Mary came 
in just then, bearing a tray with cakes and 
lemonade. 

Halleck shoved aside a pile of books on the 
center table. Mary set her tray down and 
bustled about serving us. She whispered to 
me as she passed the cake. 

“ I didn’t get to show you my new dress.” 
She bobbed her head as she went on. “ I will. 
It’s black satin, with beads.” 

The cake and lemonade were delicious. The 
boys enjoyed it I’m sure, but we weren’t a very 
merry group because Francis Boalt was so 
terribly cut up. He didn’t seem to be able to 
rouse out of his dignified gloom. 

Soon after Mary had shown me her new 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


249 


dress, and pointed out in the catalogue the hat 
she had sent for, I proposed going home. 

We bade them good night. Francis Boalt 
looked so sad and broken that honestly, though 
it was silly, I almost wished my taste had run 
to elderly attorneys. 

On the road home Paul remarked: “ It’s hit 
the old fellow an awful wallop, hasn’t it? 
Gee! I’d hate to be Timothy Boalt with a 
million hanging over my head! ” 


CHAPTER XXIV 

“BLOOD WIPES OUT DISHONOR” 

September came and the last hay crop, for 
we would let the cows take the rest of the 
year’s growth on our pastures. Our pastures, 
for the thing was settled now. The time was 
up. The books and the appraisal of the stock 
and ranch conditions proved beyond a doubt 
that Uncle Nat had won his bet on the Man- 
heim blood. 

In respect to the Torrels I didn’t forget the 
fact that my brush had helped old Father Land 
in defeating the Odd Fellows’ hopes; yet I 
counted that to his credit, in a way, because I 
had found my subjects here and had used the 
time that I might have been hoeing in the 
garden. 

After all I couldn’t help feeling with Francis 
Boalt that the land, hard master though it was, 
was still something strong, patient and enduring 
under your feet. And because it does flout 
man’s best endeavor; you know that man’s 
wastrel hand cannot tear it up and destroy it 
at his will. It stands staunch and indestruc¬ 
tible, one with God and the stars. 

The years had been hard; — I felt quite 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


251 


seasoned. I looked down at my hands, red and 
rough, with an enlarged knuckle or two where 
I had sprained my fingers pulling weeds and 
wringing clothes. But, after all, it had not 
been so bad; five years must leave some trace 
of their passing. 

The greater thing was that Paul was strong 
and brown, and very much the man. True he 
was more careless in his speech, less apt to 
remember the small courtesies; inclined to wear 
his hat in the house and be economical of shav¬ 
ing soap; yet these were minor things that 
would be easily overcome, back where they 
meant so much in the measure of a man. 

He had gone to town directly after dinner 
and had not yet returned. I was sitting out 
on the porch waiting for the men to come in to 
supper, but they were working late to get in 
the last load of hay. A thunder storm, rare 
for this time of year, gathered in the west. 
Great black clouds piled up mountain high and 
stretched themselves in a somber sheet, shot 
through with fiery zig-zags of lightning, bring¬ 
ing to my mind the phrase: “With the far 
lightning on your wings, while the dark cloud 
covers the doorway.” Only there was no dark 
cloud over my doorway, thank God! 

The gate clicked and I saw old man Graham 
hurrying up the walk. 


252 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


A few drops of rain came pattering down, so 
I called cordially: 

“ Hurry, Mr. Graham! It's going to rain 
hard. You’re out at a bad time.” 

He glanced up furtively at the sky, and 
swung out of his course and came to where I 
sat. Ill-looking as he was, he suggested to me 
the way a bootlegger should look with the 
grizzled stubble on his square face, and his 
rusty brown coat with a three cornered rent in 
the skirt. 

He didn’t raise his battered old felt hat as 
was his usual custom, but he stopped in front 
of me and glowered fiercely. Faintly amused, 
for I had never considered him otherwise than 
absurd, I said: “ Good evening.” 

He gave his lips an ugly twist. “ Is Paul 
Torrel here? ” 

“ No, he isn’t,” I said politely. “ He went 
to town and hasn’t yet returned.” 

“ He’d better git back,” he snarled; “ ’tain’t 
no use of his leavin’ the country. The Sheriff 
kin find him.” 

“ What are you talking about? ” I asked 
coldly. 

“ I’m talkin’ about that brother of yours; 
that fine young city man,” he shouted; “ who 
was hangin’ around my house all last spring, 
forcin’ his unwelcome attentions on my girl.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


253 


I laughed involuntarily. 

“ But he’ll do the square thing now. I 
won’t have my little girl’s life mint — ” 

“ Mr. Graham! ” I interrupted. “ I don’t 
know what you are talking about.” The in¬ 
sulting old fellow! He must have been drink¬ 
ing some of his own brew. “ What do you 
want? ” 

An appalling clap of thunder drowned his 
answer, but he got up in front of me, his un¬ 
shaven face working furiously, and pawed the 
air. Shreds of lining dangled from his ragged 
coat sleeves, like wriggling worms. I didn’t 
get a word of what he said until the thunder 
rolled away behind the hills, and I caught the 
last. 

“ He thinks he’ll run away from it, as likely 
he’s done before, but by God! He’ll marry her, 
or I’ll shoot ’im down like the damn dog he 
is! Yes, marry her, and that damn soon! ” 

I sat up. The zig-zag lightning darted be¬ 
tween my eyes and his anger-flushed face. The 
import of his words struck me like cold rain. 

“ Paul? Paul! ” I sprang to my feet. I 
felt my face go white, and shrink until it was 
hard and stiff like stone. My tongue couldn’t 
speak again, and my whole body grew numb. 

But the insane man spared neither Paul nor 
me. My very soul turned sick as he raved and 


254 SOIL, THE MASTER 

shouted and danced about like a bug on a hot 
lid. 

Finally I got my voice and said wearily, 
though it seemed like someone else who spoke: 

“ Hush, Mr. Graham! If Paul has done 
wrong he will right it.” Even loving Paul as 
I did, many things came to my recollection, 
sharp as the angles of the lightning, and I felt, 
hideous as the thing was, it might be true. 

The air darkened and the rain came with a 
rush. The sky sent down deluge after deluge 
as if in effort to wash the stained old world free 
from another sin. I welcomed it. It seemed 
to me it was the storm within my soul that 
raged. The yard was flooded with tawny 
rivers, and the laden fruit trees cracked under 
the added burden of the rain. 

I didn’t know when or how Graham got 
away. I sat there with the rain beating in on 
me until I was wet to the skin, and my thin 
white dress clung to me like a model’s drape. 

I heard the men come running through the 
deluge, laughing and shouting and swearing 
hilariously. 

The call of the hired man’s demand for food 
was pre-eminent. I got up, changed hastily 
into dry garments, and went to put supper on 
the table. 

I dished up potatoes and carrots and fried 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


255 


onions; I sliced bread and cold ham and set 
them on the table, while all the time the rain 
and hail beating on the roof seemed to be 
striking against my heart. The deluge pounded 
down with an incessant roar, lessened, passed, 
swung around and came back again like a giant 
bellowing for admittance. The thunder crashed 
around us and the house darkened so that I had 
to light the lamps while the men ate. And all 
during that terrible hour the darkness and 
storm were hammering at my sick soul. 

Paul did not come. Somebody remarked it, 
and Halleck noted my strange face, for I saw 
him looking at me with anxiety in his eyes. 

I couldn’t eat, but I sat there and listened to 
their talk and attended to their wants. After 
supper they all went out, even Halleck. I 
washed the dishes and went again to the porch. 

The storm had passed and the stars shone 
mildly down on the beaten earth. The plants 
had not yet lifted up their heads. An appalling 
waste of ripe yellow fruit, wet and sodden, lay 
under the peach trees, and the flood-waters 
pouring into the creek below filled the ear with 
a loud roaring. 

I sat down to watch the empty road, knowing 
that Paul would come sooner or later. In a 
few minutes I heard a step on the back porch. 
It continued through the house and came up 


256 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


behind me. I wondered if it could be Paul 
though I had not heard the car come. 

It was Halleck. He had put on clean dry 
clothes and I smelled the faint odor of tobacco 
as he knelt beside me, put his arms around me 
and kissed my cheek. He didn’t ask any 
questions. I appreciated that, but I shrank 
away from his kiss; and his arms around me, 
tender as was his touch, suffocated me. 

Somehow the thought gripped me and would 
not leave me. He knew. Perhaps he had 
seen the man Graham; perhaps they all knew. 
Possibly the whole countryside was aware, or 
had suspicioned; only I had been blind and 
ignorant. I drew farther away from his touch. 

My aversion cut him deeply. I felt him 
quiver. His arms tightened, and he broke, as 
had the storm, his long self-imposed silence and 
cried out: 

“ Annette, Annette! I love you. I want 
you. I want to be near you to protect and help 
you. Marry me, dear, soon, now.” 

At the word, a shame of sex I had never 
thought of before, flooded me, overwhelmed 
me, beat me down like the prostrate asters 
lying by the path. I flung out of his arms. 

“ Don’t talk to me! Never! I hate you! ” 

He fell back as if I had stabbed him; his arms 
dropped, paralyzed by my brutality. He rose 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


257 


to his feet and stood there mute, and I knew 
how white his face grew and how piteous his 
sensitive mouth. I knew too, at that moment 
as I had not before, that he loved me — that 
the ranch had no part in his feeling. He loved 
me as truly and unselfishly as is possible for 
men to love. 

The roar of the rushing water pounded in my 
ears, but I heard his gentle voice. 

“ Forgive me Annette. Forget what I have 
said. You are in trouble tonight, I know. 
Isn't there some way I can help; I want to." 

Conscious of my cruelty, even then I didn't 
answer him. I sat there, turned to stone again. 

He laid his hand on my shoulder, a mute 
caress. “ Annette." 

I did not respond by so much as a quiver of 
the flesh. 

Silenced, he turned to go, but I did not 
stretch out my hand to him. 

I sat there chilled to the bone and watched 
the cold stars look down on the empty road 
until midnight, my mind whirling round and 
round in a blind rage; my hatred of the ranch, 
the loneliness and isolation of the life. If this 
terrible thing were true, it was the fault of the 
environment, not Paul's fault. Dependent on 
women he was, but not vicious. In the civic 
centers there would have been something worth 


258 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


while to have taken Celia's place, some choice, 
something to have filled his life. But here in 
the isolation bred to the service of the soil 
there was nothing. And where there is nothing 
in a man's fife, something worse than nothing 
must fill the void. 

At midnight I heard Paul drive in, and soon 
he came through the house walking unsteadily 
like a drunken man, yet searching unerringly 
for me, as if he knew that I would be up and 
waiting for him. 

“ Annette! " 

“ I am here, Paul." 

He came out on the porch, and even in the 
dusk of the starlight, I could see the haggard 
pallor of his face. He stopped beside me. 

“ Dear! " I said, for I knew he was going to 
tell me. 

He dropped down on the steps and looked 
straight ahead of him. 

“I’ve married her," he blurted out; “ but 
as God hears me! I’ll never live with her." 

“Was it necessary? " I heard my strained 
voice ask. 

“ She says so." 

“ It could be possible." 

He shrank as the probe touched the truth, 
and bent his head. 

Something dropped in me like a weight, 


SOIL, THE MASTER 259 

though a hideous fear had possessed me from 
the first. 

“ Then — you have made all the amends 
possible; done all there is to do? ” 

“Yes; except leave the damned country or 
— kill myself. I — I can’t face it,” he whis¬ 
pered huskily. His head went down on his 
knees, and I knew that even I could not realize 
the wretchedness that submerged him. 

My throat contracted so that I couldn’t 
speak. I got up and slid down beside him, and 
as I put my arms around his bowed head, he 
began to shake with terrible sobs. 

I broke down too, and we wept together 
sobbing and clinging to each other like two lost 
children, until we were both spent and quiet. 

I heard the clock strike two. 

“We had better go to bed, Paul,” I said. We 
rose together. “We have that crew of men —” 
I couldn’t speak of anything deeper. “ They 
got the hay all in before the storm.” 

“ That’s good,” he said, but I knew he 
wasn’t thinking of the hay. 

“ Good night, Annette.” He kissed me 
twice and repeated, “ Good night.” 

His stillness, the hard control of his voice 
put me in a panic. I held to him. 

“ Paul, Paul, Paul! ” I kept saying his name 
over and over again, unable to let him go. 


260 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


He picked me up in his arms and carried me 
to the door of my room, and put me down. 
We stood there clasping each other, my arms 
around his neck and his face buried in my hair. 

At last he loosed my arms, saying, “ Good 
night, Sister. Go to bed.” Again he kissed 
me and went to his room. 

I crept into my bed with no thought of 
sleeping. But I was so exhausted with the 
strain of it all that I slept soundly, and I never 
heard the shot which came about four o’clock, 
washing out Paul’s dishonor in blood. 


CHAPTER XXV 

HALLECK PROVES HIS LOVE 

I don’t know how I got through that first 
terrible day; I can’t remember. I only re¬ 
member Halleck Trent’s face as he stopped me 
from going into Paul’s room, and how he 
stayed with me while I crouched outside the 
door, blind and sick until somebody came — it 
might have been Mrs. Forest, and took me 
away, and I lay in my room alone while the 
house seemed alive with people. 

When they took me in to see Paul his face 
was covered, and they wouldn’t let me lift the 
cloth. I went back into my own room and 
stayed there, not wanting to see any of them, 
kind as they were. 

Next evening, I suppose it was, for the room 
seemed to get darker, the door opened and I 
heard Martha’s voice: “ Miss Annette, child — ” 
I sprang up and ran into her arms. 

It seemed so good to rest on Martha’s 
cushiony breast and feel her big, soft hands 
patting my shoulders. 

“ I come, dearie, soon’s I got Mr. Halleck’s 
telegram.” 


262 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ Martha, Martha! " I clung to her, know¬ 
ing that it was Martha whom I wanted, yet I 
hadn't thought of sending for her because I 
couldn't think of anything, except Paul. 

We sat there together in the dark for a long 
time until I got able to talk, and tell Martha 
all about it, and Martha said: 

“ Mr. Halleck telegraphed yesterday, but I 
didn't know what had happened until he met 
me at the station. But dearie, I don't blame 
Paul a speck. If the poor lamb could only have 
known nobody blamed him! Oh, dearie, it's 
awful! I feel so bad I could die." 

“ No, we can’t, Martha," I said wearily; 
“ I've just been lying here thinking about 
that." 

I told Martha I couldn't have a public 
funeral, but she thought it wasn't quite right. 
I heard her say so to Halleck afterward, she 
thought the neighbors would all think it queer 
when they had been so kind. He answered: 

“ Hang the neighbors! They're not the ones 
to be considered." 

I felt the same way. I didn't care how kind 
the country people were. I didn’t care how 
they felt. It was my Paul. I remembered at 
Mr. Cross's burial how they all talked and 
visited, and all walked around to view his dead 
face. Paul should not be subjected to that. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 263 

I was glad Francis Boalt and Mary were away, 
and I didn’t even want Halleck Trent. 

I asked old Gene to drive the car for Martha 
and me to the Cemetery. The minister came 
and the sexton, with the hearse covered with 
flowers. 

But when we came out of the house Halleck 
put us in the car, and got in behind the wheel, 
and old Gene sat beside him. 

So we few laid Paul in the Manheim plot 
beside the graves of Uncle Nat and Aunt 
Miriam and their five children. We covered 
the coarse red earth with sweet smelling blos¬ 
soms until it was like a garden in a desert. 

I laid the last wreath of dewy roses around 
the headboard marked with his name, “ Paul 
Elliot Torrel.” 

I knelt beside it. Paul was there under all 
that heavy red earth, with his face covered; 
and I must leave him there alone. But I 
couldn’t do it. 

“ Paul, Paul,” I whispered; “ I won’t leave 
you. I’ll stay with you.” 

I told them all so. I said clearly — I didn’t 
feel like crying: 

“You can all go now. I’m going to stay 
here with Paul.” 

They didn’t answer. I bent again over the 
flowers, telling Paul how I loved him and not 


264 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


to feel lonely or forgotten. It seemed to me I 
could see him uncover his face and smile, and 
say: “ I know, Puss.” 

I thought they were all gone, but somebody 
stooped over me. 

“ Come dearie! ” It was Martha’s voice and 
Martha’s touch and, as I looked up, Martha’s 
eyes streaming with tears. She tried to draw 
me away. 

“ Let’s go, dearie. Come away! Paul’s all 
quiet and safe now. Come, lovey. You can’t 
do anything more for him.” 

“ Yes, Martha; I can.” I unwrapped her 
arms from around me. “I’m going to stay. 
He wants me. He always looked for me — 
anything he couldn’t understand. I’m sure he 
can’t understand now, down there — it’s so far 
down — and all that heavy earth over him — ” 
I pushed her away. “ Don’t try to make me 
leave Paul.” 

I heard her cry: “ Oh, dearie, dearie! You 
must come! Mr. Halleck, tell her — ” 

Another voice said; it sounded a long way 
off. “ Of course she can stay if Paul wants 
her.” 

I heard them all go, and I was alone again 
with Paul to tell him all the things I had for¬ 
gotten to tell him before his face was covered. 

It took a long time. The glory went out of 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


265 


the air and long gray shadows crept across the 
garden where Paul lay. They spread and 
spread all over the ground and the dried white 
tufts of grass growing everywhere, and rose up 
in the air — a dark curtain covering the door¬ 
way of the world! Then I knew it, the dark 
curtain wrapping me in its black folds; and 
fear clutched me. 

I stood up and looked fearfully about me. It 
was not a curtain, but more terrifying still, 
dusky night with bright-eyed stars looking 
down on me, motionless white stones standing 
sentinel over the dead around me, and Paul's 
new grave at my feet. It was I who was 
alone — and night! And Paul could not hear 
me if I cried out. 

I turned, bewildered, shivering with cold and 
dread all through my numbed body. But a 
shadowy shape stood near; I wasn't alone. 
My fears vanished. I put out my hand. 

“ Paul. Is it Paul? " 

“ Not Paul," answered a clear voice: “ But 
I am here. Do you want to go now? Martha 
and Gene are in the car, waiting. Hadn’t we 
better go? " 

It was Halleck Trent. His warm fingers 
touched mine. 

“ I am so cold! So cold !" 

He slipped out of his coat. I felt him guide 


266 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

my chilled hands into the sleeves and draw it 
snugly up around my shoulders. He took my 
arm and led me away, past the still white 
shafts, patient and careful with my stumbling 
feet, until I heard the car door slam behind 
me, and felt Martha’s warm bosom under my 
tired head. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

“ALL THE TOMORROWS” 

The next few days, Martha took care of me 
like a baby, but I knew that mustn’t go on. I 
couldn’t lean on anyone now; I had to face 
everything, and depend on myself. 

My first thought was to get away from the 
ranch, but when Martha asked me what I 
expected to do, it suddenly came to me I 
hadn’t any place to go. 

Serena wrote and asked me to come there, 
but I couldn’t think of going to Serena and 
have her ask questions. Yet when Dustan 
wrote such a wonderfully kind and under¬ 
standing letter, saying that his mother wanted 
me, I replied that I would stay there until I 
could get me a little flat. 

There were so many things to do before I 
could leave. There was the ranch first of all. 
I couldn’t just get up and leave it. There were 
the cows and horses, the pigs, chickens and Zed; 
all the five things that were dependent on some¬ 
one to care for them. 

I asked Halleck if he still cared to retain the 
Managership. 

He said, “ No,” not offering any explanation. 


268 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


But he said he would stay until I could get 
someone else. He looked awfully thin and 
worn. 

I remembered his ring which that morning I 
had slipped into my apron pocket to return to 
him. I took it out and handed it to him. 

He accepted it in a sort of indifferent way 
and dropped it into his pocket, but his eyes 
made me think of ash covered embers with the 
fire gone out. 

Remembering how kind he had been, I said: 
“I’m afraid we made a great mistake.” 

“ I suppose so,” he answered, and went out¬ 
side. Later he came in to tell me that he had 
seen Mr. Cattman who knew of a good man 
wanting to rent a dairy. Perhaps I should 
like to see the man. 

I telephoned to Mr. Jones, the prospective 
renter, and he came to look at the place. He 
was a funny little tow-headed man with three 
of his front teeth gone, but Mr. Cattman had 
recommended him as a “ hell tooter ” for work. 

It didn’t take us long to make a bargain. I 
let him have everything just as it stood, to take 
possession as soon as I went away. He had a 
family and I couldn’t have them in the house 
until after I was gone. Directly this was 
settled, Martha and I began to get things 
ready to go. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


269 


There was so much to do. Picking up and 
leaving a house after you have lived there a 
long time, is an awfully hard experience. It 
was doubly hard for me because everything I 
did reminded me of the time Paul and I had 
packed to come to the ranch. 

There were all of Paul’s things to be put 
away, his clothes, letters, gifts, and personal 
belongings that speak so plainly of the one 
gone. I could hardly bring myself to do it, 
yet I couldn’t let anyone else touch them. 
Even Martha’s kind old hands among his 
things, hurt me. 

When I came to his desk, there were Celia’s 
letters all tied up in a package with a blue 
ribbon that she had taken off her hair one 
evening and tied around Zed’s neck. I re¬ 
membered how we all laughed at Zed’s antics 
to get it off. And in a locked drawer to which 
I fitted a key, I found a gold heart-shaped 
locket with “ From Celia to Paul ” engraved in 
one side of the case, and the other half contained 
a beautiful picture of Celia. 

I knew then that there must have been some 
understanding between them before she had 
gone away that winter. But what had hap¬ 
pened? I don’t believe Paul himself ever knew. 

Looking into Celia’s lovely face, everything 
swept over me so that it seemed I couldn’t bear 


270 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


it. I cried and cried until Martha coming in, 
found me and made me go out of the room. 

It seemed that I should never get through 
with all the things. And when I thought of 
all the stock, the pigs and chickens I had helped 
raise, Zed, and all my flowers that Paul and I 
had worked over together, and even the Dodge 
and the little old Ford, they all seemed personal 
as if each thing was a part of me, and Paul. 

When we had left the city we had just packed 
our things and turned the door key over to the 
landlady and that was all there was to it. 
Ownership makes such a difference. 

When the neighbors knew I was going away, 
a number of them came to tell me good-bye; 
the Cattmans, the Forests, and the Arpsbaggers 
and others. They all hoped we’d meet again, 
but I knew that we wouldn’t. I never wanted 
to see anybody again, or anything that would 
remind me of the ranch. 

Halleck Trent took us to the station, at¬ 
tended to our luggage, got our tickets, and found 
us a seat on the shady side of the car. 

He and I did not say anything to each other. 
He held a quiet, self-constrained air, and had 
a tragic look in his eyes. I just touched his 
hand in parting. It was cold as ice. 

The tears ran frankly down on Martha’s new 
veil as she said: 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


271 


“ Good-bye, Mr. Halleck, child.” And then 
she flung her veil back and gave him a hearty 
smack. 

I thought he was going to cry too, his voice 
sounded so shaky as he said, “ Good-bye, 
Martha,” and turned and left the car. 

“ I feel terrible sorry for the child.” Martha 
seated herself amply. “ He’s grievin’ himself 
sick. Poor child! ” She said again. “ Look 
around and wave to him, Miss Annette. He’s 
got an awful gentle heart.” 

I looked around to please Martha, but he had 
disappeared. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

IN THE CITY 

Dustan met us at the Ferry Building with a 
closed car. He looked so clean and well set 
up, and the clasp of his warm hand was like 
coming into a shelter after being out in a cold 
wind. 

There was such a noisy, jostling crowd I was 
glad to be piloted out of it into the car and 
have the door close, shutting all of it out. 

Dustan got in and looked around to ask if 
we were perfectly comfortable. 

I nodded and sank back into the cushions. 
Martha sat upright holding her bag in her 
black gloved hand, and said “Yes, sir,” and 
“ No, sir,” to Dustan’s remarks. 

I looked at him in a please-I-don’t-want-to- 
talk way, and he understood, and addressed his 
conversation to Martha. It just seemed so 
nice to me to sit there quietly and watch Dustan 
dodge skillfully in and out through the crowded 
traffic. 

He drove out to a number on Larkin Street 
which Martha gave as her working place, and 
stopped in front of a house with high steps. 

Martha kissed me good-bye. “ Come and 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


273 


see me, dearie,” she said and when Dust an 
opened the door, she got out carefully, back¬ 
wards, pulling her wide black skirts after her. 

She began thanking him, but he took her 
suitcase and her arm and helped her up the 
steps and rang the bell. She shook hands with 
him, and turned again toward me. So I carried 
away with me the picture of her round red 
smiling face under her little black hat, before 
the opening door had swallowed her and her 
bag. 

The Carters lived up on California near 
Mason, so the sun was nearly down, and the 
fog was rolling in through the Golden Gate 
when we arrived at Dustan’s home. 

Serena was out, but Mrs. Carter was waiting 
for us. She was so like Dustan as she came 
forward to meet me, tall and aristocratic look¬ 
ing like him, and her hair was silvery gray. 

She kissed me with gracious warmth, saying, 
“ Serena will be here soon; she just telephoned. 
Come this way. You must be very tired.” 

She led the way into a blue panelled bed 
room which was new to me, and the windows 
of which were hung with silver and blue cur¬ 
tains. 

“ You see, we have moved since you were 
here before.” 

“1 like it better than the old house,” I man- 


274 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


aged to say. “ And it's very lovely of you to 
ask me here.” 

She laid her white, ringed hand on my arm, 
with a beautiful, maternal gesture. “ It’s more 
lovely to have you come! ” She turned to 
answer Dustan’s rap on the door. He had 
brought my suitcase — and had set it inside 
the door. With a wish that I might find 
everything convenient, his mother followed him 
out. 

I combed my hair and changed my traveling 
suit into something more suitable for the house 
and returned to the living room. 

Serena got up out of a deep-cushioned chair 
to meet me. She kissed me and insisted on my 
sitting in the chair which, she said, was the 
most comfortable in the room. 

Serena had certainly changed: she was more 
fashionable, less amply curved, and just now, 
her patronage had the charm of sincerity. She 
sat opposite me on a dark blue Davenport and 
talked pleasantly, until Mr. Carter came in 
just before dinner. 

He was fair and overflowing like Serena, in¬ 
clined to be dominant, and his head was quite 
bald. He shook my hand heartily and hoped 
that I had come for a long stay. 

I felt embarrassed as I resumed my seat. 
Kind as they were, and though I had known 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


275 


them all before, they almost seemed like 
strangers, but they made every effort to have 
me feel that I had dropped into a waiting niche. 

Understanding how wretched I was, after the 
trouble I had passed through, they let me go to 
bed directly after dinner. Mrs. Carter came to 
my room to ask if there was any possible thing 
that she could do for me. I thanked her and 
told her I wanted nothing. But when I curled 
up in that dainty blue and white bed, I never 
felt so lonely in my life. 

In spite of all their kindness during the fol¬ 
lowing days, I felt I could not stay at their 
house. Dustan wanted me to marry him at 
once, and even his mother put in a small plea 
for him. But I couldn’t do it; I just couldn’t 

I made myself think over and over again how 
wonderful it would be to live in Dustan’s life, 
to be one of that lovely family (barring Serena, 
and she had improved); to be surrounded and 
wrapped up in Dustan’s never failing affection; 
to share in his genius and the world’s praise; to 
belong to Dustan himself. But something 
gripped me and held me back, and sent me into 
a passion of tears when he mentioned his desire. 

I was terribly ashamed of myself, and sorry 
for Dustan, but I couldn’t help it; I cried and 
cried, and Dustan, perforce, had to give up the 
idea, and wait. 


276 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

But I had to go away from there. Serena 
liked to go and have company, and I wasn’t 
any addition to gaiety; so Dustan helped 
me to find a cosy place about six blocks from 
there. 

It had one room with a wide north window 
which Dustan said at once, could be my studio. 
It took at least two weeks to fix it all up to suit 
me. I worked hard to get it all done, and I 
was almost happy as I worked; but when I 
had finished, I sat down in the middle of my 
studio floor and wondered what on earth I 
should do with my time. 

To cook for one when I had had six or eight; 
three tiny rooms to clean when I had been used 
to a whole house; no porches or walks to 
sweep, no garden to weed or lamps to fill, no 
bread to make, no chickens, dogs or pigs to 
feed, no wood to bring in or ashes to empty, a 
pretense at washing and ironing! I couldn’t 
paint all the time. 

When Dustan came in on me with a big 
bunch of roses in his hand, I was crying like a 
baby. 

I choked back my tears and got up from the 
floor with a pretense at respectability. I couldn’t 
have Dustan see me weeping all the time. I 
put the flowers in water, and showed him all over 
the tiny apartment. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


277 


“ And now,” I said forlornly; “ I don’t know 
what to do.” 

Dustan said: “ There is an especially good 
offering at the Columbia this afternoon. Per¬ 
haps you would like to see it.” 

That was the way Dustan tried to soften my 
sorrow and my loneliness without Paul, and as 
the days went by I began to slip into the old 
life with some degree of content. 

Several of the old bunch came to see me, and 
they all had the same idea that now the farm 
was mine, I must be fabulously wealthy. 

I didn’t put myself out to dispute it. I 
didn’t care about that or anything else. Noth¬ 
ing seemed of great importance. 

I went to see Pinky and her two pretty 
babies. She didn’t look much as she did that 
first summer when they all came to the ranch. 
Thin and awfully delicate looking, she spent 
most of her time telling me how ill she felt, and 
how difficult it was to do her work. 

“ We generally take dinner out. If we 
didn’t, Annette, I just couldn’t stand it. And 
Jimmy says he doesn’t want me to kill my¬ 
self.” 

I told her about Mrs. Forest and Mrs. 
Keene, and she almost fainted. 

“ I don’t see how farm women stand it,” she 
sighed, delicately shaking her head at me; 


278 SOIL, THE MASTER 

“ but I suppose the real farm women are strong 
as horses.” 

I didn’t want to slap Pinky in her own house 
so I cut my visit short, but I did say that one 
seldom could see a farm woman lying down on 
the job. However this passed over Pinky’s 
marcelled head, because she thought she was 
the most overworked woman in California. 

I enjoyed Elsie Stein. She was the head of 
her department in a big office down town. 
She wore mannish clothes, and had the thin¬ 
lipped, pert independence of the business 
woman. 

She was full of pep though — no whining 
delicacy about her! Also she was given to 
glorifying her single state and pitying married 
women; but I soon discovered that she had her 
competent eye on Dustan. She didn’t dream 
that anyone could see how interested she was in 
him, and I don’t think that Dustan more than 
knew that she was alive. 

It was she who told me what an excitement 
Dustan’s picture of “ The Farm Woman ” had 
created, both here and in the East. It had 
been accepted in Paris, and had made a stir 
there. 

“ We’ll envy you, having such a famous hus¬ 
band,” she said experimentally. 

I smiled and said; “ That will be pleasant.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 279 

I didn’t tell her anything. She might find out 
in due time. 

One day I went out to Larkin Street to see 
Martha. She was seated in her room, in an 
enormous gray wrapper, darning stockings. 

“ Oh, dearie, dearie! ” She rose up and 
smothered me in her arms. “ Sit in this rock¬ 
ing chair. I’ve been wondering such a lot 
about you and wanting to see you. You look 
beautiful, Miss Annette! And how is Mr. 
Dustan? ” 

We had a good long talk. Martha got some 
cakes and made a cup of tea, and while I drank 
she told me everything that had happened 
since the night Dustan had left her at her door. 

“ Mary didn’t like it in Chicago, and has 
gone back to Stonehouse County,” she said. 
“ Mr. Boalt’s place is rented to a family, Tim 
Boalt sent out from the East. They wanted 
somebody to cook, so Mary is right back in 
her own kitchen.” 

“ How nice! ” I said taking another cake. 

“ Take two,” insisted Martha shaking the 
tea pot, “ and there’s more tea. Mary doesn’t 
like the city. She stopped here one day on her 
way back from Chicago. She wanted to see 
you — but dearie — you were up at Mr. Dus- 
tan’s — ” Martha paused respectfully at Dus- 
tan’s name and threaded her darning needle. 


280 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ I'd have been glad to see you, just the 
same, Martha/’ I assured her. (But what 
would Serena have thought?) “ And now I 
have a flat of my own, so you must come to see 
me sometime.” 

“Yes, dearie; I will,” promised Martha 
examining her stocking for another hole; “ and 
lovey — Mary said that Mr. and Mrs. Cattman 
have gone to Los Angeles, and Mr. Halleck has 
rented their place.” 

“ Has he? ” 

“ I don’t see how the poor child’s going to do 
anything all by himself,” commented Martha. 

“ I’ve no doubt he’ll get along, Martha,” I 
remarked. “ Does Francis Boalt like it in 
Chicago? ” 

“Not too much. But dearie! ” Martha 
looked shocked at her own lack; “ I’m for¬ 
getting. I must tell you all about the wedding. 
Mary said it was grand! ” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

CELIA HEARS OF PAUL’S DEATH — 

The next day Dustan took me to an exhibi¬ 
tion of paintings at the St. Francis, and we had 
lunch there. 

Later as we wandered around the exhibition 
room looking at the pictures, we came face to 
face with Celia Parker and her husband. 

It was a terrible shock to me, but there was 
no escape. She looked lovelier than ever except 
that her face seemed so pale and tiny set above 
her handsome furs, and her eyes looked strange 
and sad. 

She kissed me in the same old impulsive way, 
and presented her husband to Dustan. 

I know that my own face must have been 
ghastly, but Dustan’s presence supported me. 
I asked her questions and she answered them. 
She asked me questions, to which I replied. 

She said they were starting south to Florida 
the next day, and how long did I expect to be 
away from the ranch? Then Mr. Parker said 
to me: 

“ Where is the good looking young man, 
your brother, Miss Torrel? ” 


282 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ Paul? ” I said, trying to keep my voice 
steady. “ He’s — there. He — was killed — 
you know — an accident.” 

“ Ah! ” he said regretfully. 

But Celia’s lovely eyes caught at mine in 
fright; her face turned white and rigid as 
marble. With a faint, smothered cry she 
dropped to the floor and lay there a pitiful heap 
in her costly furs. 

Her husband turned in alarm and gathered 
her up in his arms, calling loudly for assistance 
which came running. 

Dust an and I slipped away in the commotion. 

“ You know, Dust an,” I explained; “ in 
some way Celia was the indirect cause of Paul’s 
death.” 

“ She must know it,” said Dustan. “ You 
women have a great deal on your hands some¬ 
times, Annette.” 

I didn’t say anything. I thought of Halleck 
Trent, yet I wondered if Dustan was speaking 
for himself. 

It was three days before the Parkers left the 
city. Dustan and I both telephoned and sent 
flowers, but I did not see Celia again. 

From Tampa she sent me a letter. And at 
the end she wrote: 

“ It isn’t right, Annette, for parents to map 
out their children’s lives too closely. I always 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


283 


thought I had to do exactly as my father 
planned for me. I know, now that it is too 
late, that in some things this is a terrible mis¬ 
take, even a sin.” 

That was all, but I’m sure she felt that I 
would understand. Truly: 

“ It’s an awkard thing to play with souls, 
And matter enough to save one’s own.” 

I hoped that Mr. Hilyard’s warped soul 
would be eternally damned for the hurt he had 
done Paul! 

One day I met him on the street where Post 
runs into Market. Evidently he was waiting 
for a car. Well dressed, prosperous and smil¬ 
ing, he greeted me delightedly: 

“ Why Miss Torrel! This is an unexpected 
pleasure.” 

I bowed coldly. “ How do you do, Mr. 
Hilyard,” I said and passed on. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

AND MARTHA WAS SO FLUSTRATED — SHE HAD 
ON ONE WHITE STOCKING, AND THE 
OTHER WAS BLACK 

After the meetings with Celia and Mr. Hil- 
yard I lived everything all over again, and was 
nearly crazy. I couldn’t stand the loneliness 
of the flat so I rented it and went to a boarding 
house for a few weeks. 

It was better there because I saw people, and 
had someone to talk to. But I soon got so 
weary of the same people every day, I couldn’t 
stand them. I moved to another hotel. It 
was the same thing, so I moved again. 

Dust an worried terribly over it. He urged 
me to marry him, and we’d take a long trip 
over entirely new scenes, and perhaps I could 
forget. 

I didn’t weep over his suggestion, but I 
couldn’t bring myself to do it. I think if Dus- 
tan had kidnapped me it would have been all 
right; but he didn’t do that. Naturally he 
wanted me to make up my own mind, but I 
didn’t seem to have any mind to make up. 

It was hard for him. He couldn’t get down 
to his work because he had me and my troubles 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


285 


forever on his mind. I urged him to go away 
and perhaps I would work it out for myself; 
but he couldn’t do that, either. 

It wasn’t a very profitable winter for any¬ 
body. Serena was very gay, going and giving 
parties and nearly always having a housefull, 
which annoyed Dustan so much that he finally 
moved away from his home to bachelor quar¬ 
ters in the Nob Hill region, and had his studio 
there. 

It became the meeting place for artists and 
art students of talent, and we had times really 
worth while there. They were quiet, friendly 
affairs where those who had arrived and those 
who were on the way met and had tea and 
talked art or anything else of interest, but of 
course painting was the main pivot. 

I attempted to get back into the work, but 
I knew that Dustan was disappointed over 
what I accomplished, and I knew that in my 
own stiff, heavy touch a great deal of the fault 
lay. 

But I enjoyed these meetings better than 
anything else. Elsie Stein was the only out¬ 
sider, except Serena of course, who swooped 
down on us all at intervals, and once Dustan 
had Martha over. 

Martha’s advent into the circle was very 
funny, and she was so flustrated that she came 


286 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


wearing one white stocking and one black one. 
She didn’t discover it until after she arrived, 
and her efforts to hide her props were pathetic. 

Of course nobody knew who she was, so Dus- 
tan introduced her as his aunt, and she was 
supposed to be the chaperone. At first she sat 
up stiff and funny, for her stockings took the 
spontaneity out of her, but her natural kindli¬ 
ness couldn’t long be suppressed, and soon she 
was mothering us all, and they thought her 
pecularities were due to the fact of her near 
relation to genius such as Dustan’s. 

I hadn’t laughed so much since I came to 
the city as I did that night; and Martha had 
the time of her life. Once she beckoned me 
over to her side. 

“ Dearie,” she said; “ did I tell you that the 
Cattmans are going to New York in the spring 
to see Norah, and Mr. Halleck is dickering to 
buy their place? ” 

“ The country will all be changing hands 
soon,” I replied. Why should Halleck Trent’s 
movements interest me? “ I had a letter from 
Mr. Jones today asking me if I would consider 
selling my place on long time payments.” 

“ You’re not going to do it, are you? ” 

“ I don’t know? I haven’t decided. I want 
to sell.” 

The people began leaving just then and they 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


287 


came clustering to tell their hostess goodnight. 

She shook hands with each one, her round 
red face beaming, saying “Now lovey ” and 
“Now dearie, wrap up good around your ears. 
And be sure, dearies, to breathe through your 
noses when you git out in the cold fog.” 

After they were gone she got on her own vast 
wrap and hat and kissed Elsie and me good 
night. Her fat round face looked so funny as 
she held out her cushiony hand to Dustan, awe 
and affection fighting for supremacy. 

“ Good night, Mr. Dustan, sir,” she said. 
“ Eve got to go. I’ve had a nice time.” 

Dustan said, “ But I'm going to see you to 
your car, Martha.” He gave her his arm. 
She took it and looked back over her shoulder 
at Elsie and me, beaming proudly. 

We skipped after them as far as the door. 

Dustan was handing her into the taxi, and 
alas for Martha's elegance! As she stepped in, 
the street lamp revealed clearly her stout 
black and white legs. 

“ Isn't that a scream! ” said Elsie. 

Dustan came back delighted with his aunt's 
social success. He took us home and at my 
door I paused: 

“ Thank you Dustan — for — about 
Martha — ” I knew he had done it just to 


amuse me. 


288 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


He smiled rarely. If he had only known 
then, to say something — I think I should have 
married him the next day. But Elsie was 
there. She laughed her thin-lipped laugh — 
no sentiment could live near that sound. 

“ Oh, Dusty; you're a scream! ” 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE BROKEN STATUE 

I moved once more over to where Elsie Stein 
boarded, and there I stayed until spring. 

We had good times together. Dustan took 
us around quite a bit or we went alone, we two. 
We did about the same things over and over, 
and when spring came, it was little different 
from winter; shows, music, matinees, lectures 
and shopping for amusement, and fog, wind, 
rain and sunshine, just about the same as 
winter weather. 

We used to talk sometimes about the wonder¬ 
ful and absolute change of winter into spring 
in the country, for Elsie hadn’t forgotten the 
farm. Sometimes she was silly enough to say 
she’d like to go back. I’d remind her of a few 
things and she’d get over the idea. 

I didn’t want to think about the ranch, but 
I did. I couldn’t help wondering how my 
orange trees got through the winter, if it was 
cold enough to freeze the early Chinese lilies 
and the crocuses; if the hens laid during Feb¬ 
ruary and if old Marko had had her usual 
heifer calf — she hadn’t missed once in all the 
five years. One day I met Martha in the Em- 


290 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


porium. — She told me that Mary had sent me 
word that the lupin was running all over every¬ 
where this spring. Mary remembered how 
crazy I was over it. 

I had another letter from A1 Jones wanting 
me to come up and look over the place. If I 
wouldn’t sell, he wanted a long time lease. 

That afternoon Dustan came over and said 
that Serena was having a tea at his studio. 
She had a discovery to exploit, one Guiseppe 
Ghiselli, whose specialty was sculpture. He 
wanted me to go. 

I got ready and just as we were starting, 
Elsie came home, so we asked her also. As it 
wasn’t far and such a pretty May afternoon I 
said: 

“ Let’s walk.” 

There was no hint of fog, one of those days 
when you can see the Farralones out beyond 
the Golden Gate. The sky was almost as blue 
as Stonehouse County skies, and the sun almost 
as warm. 

We went up a quiet street, not much traffic, 
but at the corner a truck was stalled. The 
driver, a farmer, I could tell by his stubbly 
chin, was out looking into the thing’s internals, 
with his face all screwed up. I felt sorry for 
the poor man. I remembered when the Ford 
used to get stuck for no apparent reason. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


291 


He had a new plow with a handsome red 
beam and shiny shares, and a curious attach¬ 
ment for turning under weeds, which I couldn't 
help stopping to look at. Perhaps Mr. Jones 
would be interested in it. 

Dustan's expression of polite inquiry, when I 
peeked into the truck, embarrassed me. 

“ That's such a good looking plow," I said; 
“ I wanted to see — " 

“ Oh, come on — " commanded Elsie. “ I 
thought you'd got rid of the farming bug. 
Hurry her along, Dusty; or she'll be running 
off with that string bean." 

Dustan laughed indulgently. I got back on 
the sidewalk, wondering what made me do such 
a silly thing. 

The studio was already crowded when we 
arrived. Serena, beautifully gowned in gold 
colored satin, was getting more charming every 
time she introduced Guiseppe Ghiselli. 

He stood near Serena, small and dark, very 
Italian looking, with melting black eyes. 

“ He is a bunch of garlic," whispered Elsie 
as we edged our way through the press of 
geniuses and would-be's, possibilities and hope¬ 
less cases, all chattering graciously or standing 
aloof in well bred or fidgetty silence, as indi¬ 
vidual dispositions decreed. 

“ He reminds me of one Tony Mendoza who 


292 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


worked at the ranch,” I returned as we ap¬ 
proached the sculptor. 

Serena presented us. He bowed low over 
our hands and casually introduced Art as a 
natural topic of conversation. 

I didn’t feel inclined to talk Art. A1 Jones’s 
letter, full of queer spelling, kept repeating 
itself to me. I didn’t want to go up to the 
ranch, yet I wondered if I should. 

I listened smilingly to Mr. Ghiselli until he 
turned his eyes away a moment to give height 
and breadth to a wonderful fagade he was 
describing, then I dodged behind a fat art 
enthusiast with a pince nez , and fled. I felt 
Elsie’s menacing glare and her tug at my 
blouse, for Elsie was decidedly short on art, 
but I didn’t care. I made the far wall of the 
room my limit, and sat down in a corner behind 
a palm, that Serena had imported into the 
studio for the occasion. 

My mind sped back to the ranch, thinking of 
the May afternoons under my oaks, the lupin 
on the hills, and the reflections of the sunset 
colors in the river, of the hot scent of the alfalfa 
fields, the night the barn burned, and Zed’s 
timely appearance one other night, of Dick 
Patton’s near death, of Dad’s picturesque 
language, of Paul, and Halleck Trent’s face — 
that morning — ” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 293 

Somebody sat down beside me. “ You are 
interested in art, Miss Torrel? ” 

I looked around. It was Ghiselli looking at 
me with soulful eyes. 

“I? Oh yes,” I admitted; “ intensely. 
But it’s almost haying time now.” 

The sculptor’s dark eyes, full of the poetry 
of his Latin race, popped open in amazement. 

Dustan touched his sleeve. “ Come, Ghi¬ 
selli. I’ve something to show you. An¬ 
nette I want you to see this. It arrived this 
afternoon from Italy; I’ve just unpacked 
it.” 

We rose and followed him to the fireplace 
where a small marble figure stood on the mantel. 
A crowd was gathered around it, but they made 
way for us. It was the most beautiful thing I 
had ever seen, I think — a dancing Naiad, arms 
upraised, with delicate leafy vines twined 
around the exquisitely modeled limbs. 

Dustan removed it from the mantel and 
handed it to me, that I might see more clearly 
the fine detail of the work. The others drew 
nearer, and Ghiselli, his artistic soul aflame, 
pressed closer. 

Full of awe, I took it in my hand, and rever¬ 
enced its beauty. And then the most terrible 
thing possible happened. It slipped through 
my fingers and fell with a crash on the stone 


294 SOIL, THE MASTER 

hearth. And out of the shock that possessed 
me, I cried: 

“ Damn it! ” 

Nobody noticed it in the face of the greater 
catastrophe — nobody except Dustan and 
me. 

My horrified eyes sought his, and I knew 
that his pained look was not for the shattered 
marble lying face downward on the floor. 

The guests came clustering around us, and I 
wanted to die. 

Ghiselli sprang forward and picked up the 
broken thing amid a dreadful wave of regrets 
faintly breathed. The arms were broken, one 
foot gone, and delicate vines tinkled back 
against the hearth. 

He tragically fitted the fragments together, 
while I stood paralyzed, staring, not at the 
ruined marble, but at the grinning spectre of 
my own humiliation. 

I turned my back. “ I can’t say anything, 
Dustan! ” I jerked out. 

He started out of his bewilderment and came 
close to me. 

“ Annette! It’s nothing. Don’t worry. It’s 
nothing! ” 

There was everything in his tone; kindness, 
love, forgiveness, excuse, but I wanted to run 
away and hide my face forever from his eyes. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 295 

I hung my head; I couldn’t answer him. But 
he didn’t require it. 

“ Serena, dear.” He turned smiling; “ isn’t 
that kettle ever going to boil? Reach the 
caddy there, Ghiselli, please. And if you are 
going to cut the cake, Elsie; be at it.” 

Everybody stirred, breaking up the tragic 
group, and the afternoon progressed. But it 
was ruined for me, no matter how well bred 
everyone acted. 

Everyone else seemed to forget all about it, 
but I thought the afternoon would never end, 
although I dreaded the moment when I should 
be alone with Dustan on the way home. Elsie 
was going from there to keep an appointment 
down town. 

At last the awful minute arrived when I 
found myself outside in the street alone with 
Dustan. The fog was rolling in thick and cold, 
like a slow, visible wind. A man was lighting 
the street lamps. Dustan wanted to call a 
taxi, but I wouldn’t let him. 

I wanted to walk, to walk for miles and let 
the cold fog beat against my face. I swung 
along with a country stride, and he kept pace 
with me, chatting pleasantly. Yet all the time 
I felt the undercurrent of his deeper thought, 
and was as dumb as one of my own cows. 

At my hotel, he followed me in to my little 


296 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

sitting room, turned on the lights and the 
heater, and asked if he might stay a few minutes. 

I nodded, unable to speak as I flung off my 
wraps. 

He removed his overcoat and laid it on the 
lounge. 

I crumpled up beside the table and hid my 
head, blurting out between my sobs, “ I’m not 
in the habit of swearing, Dust an! ” 

“ I know it.” He came to me and raised me 
to my feet, put his arms close around me and 
held me. 

I couldn’t say anything more. I just leaned 
against him and cried. 

He said: “ Annette, you’re going to marry 
me right away.” I felt him slip his ring from 
his own finger to mine, over the end halfway — 
and it stopped. It wouldn’t go on! 

I sensed his surprise, but I knew what was 
the matter. I had sprained that finger pulling 
weeds out of the garden, and indignant nature 
had retaliated the only way she knew how. 

Dustan knew too, in a minute. He kissed 
that terrible big knuckle in a sort of savage 
way, saying fiercely: 

“ Thank God, Annette! You’ll never have 
to go back there. I’ll keep you here with me.” 

The humiliation of it swept over me drying 
my tears as the north wind’s hot breath bums 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


297 


the moisture from the soil. I drew out of his 
arms; that distorted finger seemed to grow into 
a monstrous thing that thrust itself between us. 

“ Let me go, Dust an,” I said in a choked 
voice. “ I can’t marry you until I shake off 
the hold of the ranch. It binds me like a leash. 
I’m going north tomorrow and sell it.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 

THE NEW OWNER 

The next evening found me in the station 
where Paul and I had left the train on our first 
visit to Stonehouse County. I was there again, 
and there was no change in the place; only I 
was changed and — alone. 

There was the same hot street with the dusty 
automobiles, the same ticket agent with his 
bib overalls, and the same truck empty of 
luggage. At the far end of the station a group 
of hoboes lounged by the track. 

I glanced at them, wondering if any of them 
would work if they were offered a job. But, 
thank Heaven! I didn't want any of them; I 
was through with that. One burly, bearded 
creature looked at me in passing, and afterward 
I saw him peering into the station where I 
waited for a hired car to take me out to the 
ranch. 

After a fifteen minute wait, old Mr. Potter 
came with a shiny new Chevrolet, and we left 
the town behind. 

The country was fast turning brown, except 
in the irrigated fields for it was nearing June; 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


299 


but everywhere was the promise of the soil in 
the lush fields of alfalfa and the orchards laden 
with green fruit. It interested me the more 
perhaps that I was going to cast it all behind 
me. 

Strange people were on the Hilyard place. I 
didn’t see anyone at the Forest’s as we passed; 
perhaps they were not at home. At the Catt- 
man place I saw a fat Indian leading a team to 
the barn. 

I paid the taxi driver at my own gate and 
walked in to the house carrying my suitcase. 

Mr. Jones was in the kitchen with a gingham 
apron tied around him, getting supper. I 
heard one of the children say, “ Papa, here’s a 
lady.” 

Mr. Jones was awfully surprised to see me, 
and very sorry to have to tell me his wife was 
not at home. She had gone to Daughter Susy 
who was expecting a new baby. 

He asked me in, however, and carried my 
suitcase into the spare room. He opened the 
doors to let in the cooler air, telling me to make 
myself at home, supper would be ready in a 
minute. 

The spare room was my own room about as 
I had left it except there was a different counter¬ 
pane on the bed and crocheted tidies on the 
bureau. 


300 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

Everything was very clean. Mary had writ¬ 
ten Martha that Mrs. Jones was an excellent 
housekeeper. 

It was hot. I changed my suit for a white 
voile, and my brown shoes and stockings for 
white ones, combed my hair and washed up a 
little before Mr. Jones sent Tommy in to tell 
me that supper was ready. 

During the meal Mr. Jones said that his wife 
had been gone nearly a week. Susy’s husband 
worked on a ranch about six miles away — they 
had a house and lived there. But this being a 
busy time, of course Frank, Susy’s husband, 
had to be at work. And Susy was afraid to be 
alone, hence, Mrs. Jones’s absence. It was 
timely, since they had no hired man just now. 

Before we finished the meal, the telephone 
bell rang. Mrs. Jones, at the other end of the 
wire, said that the baby had come, and Susy 
wanted Pa to come over. 

Mr. Jones came back to the table with re¬ 
gretful apologies, but I told him to go along and 
see Susy. “ No, no,” I insisted. “ Let Tommy 
go too. I don’t mind in the least, staying alone. 
Of course Tommy wants to see the baby.” 

They got off soon after supper. Mr. Jones 
said they’d probably not be home until late, 
and he’d bring Mrs. Jones. 

I was glad to be alone as I wanted to prowl 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


301 


around the yard, and go out and visit the cows. 
After washing the supper dishes, I took the half 
hour of remaining daylight to go over the yard. 

Everything was neglected and choked with 
weeds. My orange trees were dead. Evi¬ 
dently Mr. Jones had neglected to protect them 
during the winter. The pigs had rooted the 
flower beds over and over until not a trace of 
bloom was left, except one sad marigold starv¬ 
ing for water at the edge of the walk. 

“ If I didn’t expect to sell immediately, I’d 
get a man and put him in here to clean this up, 
just for the look of things,” I said. And then 
I thought of the husky tramp at Maples. 

But my beautiful oaks and walnuts were still 
the majestic creatures I had left. I went out 
and stood under the spreading branches and 
looked up at the sky. Such largess! Such 
majesty! Such a triumph of the striving soil, 
this great oak whose branches bending, touched 
the ground; whose branches reaching, swept 
the sky, or seemed to, as I looked up through 
the twilight. 

The old familiar silence greeted me like the 
voice of one long absent. I recalled the first 
time Paul and I had noticed this tree, and now 
Paul seemed to stand beside me, and be a part 
of the silence. 

I heard a dog barking down at the Cattman 


302 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


place. I wished that I had asked Mr: Jones to 
bring Zed back with him, for he had told me 
that Susy kept him over there for company 
when she was alone with just the children. 
Zed certainly was good company. I wished he 
were with me. 

I went back to the house and sat down on the 
porch. A star appeared and then another, 
twinkling in the warm gray sky. 

“ The heavens were making room to hold the 
night, 

The seven-fold heavens unfolding all their 
gates 

To let the stars out slowly.” 

The night darkened. It was awfully still and 
lonesome, and it seemed so strange to be wan¬ 
dering around the place alone, when there had 
always been such activity. 

The twilight hour was when Paul used to like 
to play, and often the men came to the porch 
to listen. I went inside and tried to open the 
piano, but it was locked. Mrs. Jones evidently 
was a careful woman. 

It was too early to go to bed. Lighting a 
lamp, I carried it into Paul's room. Every¬ 
thing was changed. Undoubtedly it was the 
children's room, for toys and picture books and 
small shoes and stockings littered the floor. 

Back into my own room, I picked up my 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


303 


jacket and hat and hung them up in the closet, 
and put my brown shoes and stockings under 
the bed. 

At the end of my resources, I sat down in a 
rocking chair and thought of Dustan, of his 
kindness, patience and understanding, and of 
all the years of love he had spent on me, and I 
wondered if I should be able to fill his life as he 
deserved. 

My thoughts were so busy I didn’t pay any 
attention when the screen door creaked, but 
conscious of a presence in the room I looked up. 

I sprang to my feet. The dirty, unkempt 
night visitor who confronted me certainly had 
no business in my room. It was the same man 
I had seen at Maples peering at me through the 
window. 

He took off his battered hat like a gentleman, 
revealing bushy hair of rusty blonde, and beard 
several shades darker covered half of his swol¬ 
len, dissipated face. With a start, I recognized 
him anew — Dick Patton, many miles farther 
on the downhill road than when I had seen him 
last. 

I stepped backward. “ You? ” I said; “ back 
again! ” 

“ Most certainly,” he answered with a dread¬ 
ful smile. “ A good collector always comes 
back. I’ve come to get my pay.” 


304 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


. “ I don’t owe you anything,” I said coldly. 

He turned around and put his hat on the 
floor, a clumsy, awkward gesture, and straight¬ 
ened up. 

“ You don’t? Look here! ” 

With his dirty fingers he parted the puffy 
lids of his right eye, and the eye was out! The 
ball itself was gone; and the empty socket 
leered at me hideously. 

I stared at him in stupid horror. It was like 
a wizard’s trick. 

“ How did it happen? ” I asked at last. 

He took down his hands letting the lids close. 
They went together as a dead reptile squirms 
after life is extinct. 

“ You don’t need to ask that. You know. 
And you’re going to pay for it tonight, with 
interest.” 

I still stared at him with a dreadful sinking 
feeling. Undoubtedly he had met with this 
disaster in some brawl, and he now made use 
of it. I tried to think. Knowing that he was 
now, not a hot blooded creature of primitive 
passion, but the cold, relentless and cruel 
product of degraded civilization, I knew we 
were going to have it out this time. And I 
saw in his bloated face and one sinister eye that 
any favor I gained in the ensuing struggle would 
not be through his generosity. 


305 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

“Well,” he said, narrowing his lids; “are 
you ready? We’re all alone, just you and me. 
I’ve got you this time. Haven’t I? ” 

My heart pounded at his crafty smile, but I 
nerved myself, and said curtly: “ Not neces¬ 
sarily.” 

“No,” he leered at me with that one awful 
eye. “ You might cry and I might let you off, 
if you asked me pretty, on your knees.” 

He didn’t fool me any. I returned his look 
with a glance of scorn. 

“ I shall not go down on my knees to you,” 
I said coldly. “ If you want to kill me, do so. 
I can die but once.” 

“ You’ve got plenty of grit now,” he said. 
“ I wonder how it will last. You’ve got two 
eyes, you know to put out — first.” 

I knew then, that the man was insane. I 
felt the blood drain out of my face. 

“ But,” he continued gloatingly; “ I’m not 
going to put out your pretty eyes, nor kill you, 
nor hurt you in any way, providing, of course, 
you are good and reasonable, and pay your 
debts like an honest woman should.” 

My very brain turned hot. I knew why men 
fight. I wanted to kill him! to smash his hor¬ 
rible, smiling face; to slit his fat throat and let 
out the blood I could see pulsing up and down in 
his neck. The fury in me smothered my fear. 


306 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


“ An honest woman pays no dishonest debts,” 
I retorted, reading admiration for my daring 
in his eye; but I knew too, that wasn’t going 
to help me any. 

“ A kiss five years old,” he continued with a 
hideous travesty of persuasion; “ I’ve waited; 
you’ve waited. But it’s not been my fault.” 

“ You need not include me. I have never 
been famishing for your vile kisses.” 

He flushed angrily. I could see that his 
crafty patience was ebbing fast. My mind 
searched frantically for some means of outwit¬ 
ting him; as he stood there his head thrust 
forward watching me with that awful eye. 

If I could put out that eye! I might escape 
in the ensuing darkness. I was not horrified 
by the idea. I began to consider how I could 
do it. 

He was watching me like a hawk, and I 
watched him in return as animals eye each 
other warily before they spring. 

He lessened the distance between us with a 
forward step. 

I retreated with a shudder I could not sup¬ 
press. 

Thrusting out a long arm, he seized me, and 
blind, stark terror overwhelmed me. 

“ Halleck! ” I screamed with no idea of what 
I was saying. “ Halleck! ” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 307 

“ Never mind, pretty little wildcat. We 
won’t wait for Halleck.” 

His horrible, hairy face was close to mine. I 
could smell his foul breath. Every atom of my 
being shrank in horrified revolt. I struck out 
like a cat, my fingers clawing for his good eye. 

I missed it, for his hand flung mine aside, 
but the blood followed the track of my nails 
down his face. 

He cursed me as he tried to catch and hold 
my • wrists, but curses didn’t touch me. I 
fought with feet and claws and teeth like a wild 
animal. 

“ Fight! You little devil, fight! ” he hissed; 
“ and fight yourself out! You’ll pay for that 
too! ” 

I heard it through his clenched teeth. I saw, 
like a horrible moving picture, his fury-inflamed 
face close to mine, the blood trickling down into 
his beard. He could have overpowered me with 
one blow of his fist, but my whirling brain 
knew that he was letting me fight myself out, 
grimly taking the punishment. 

Time after time I broke away from his hold, 
only to be snatched roughly back as he laughed 
his taunting laugh. 

I set my teeth in his arm. I could taste the 
welling blood. 

He savagely struck me loose and I reeled 


308 


SOIL, THE MASTER 

backward, my breath coming in gasps of pain, 
my arms weighted as with lead. I was nearly 
done. I knew it and I realized by his triumph¬ 
ant laugh, that he knew it too. He caught me 
again, gripping my wrist with his puffy fingers, 
and sick horror closed in on me. 

“ Halleck! Halleck! ” I shrieked. “ Hal- 
leck! ” 

The miracle of Halleck’s voice answered. 

“ Coming, Annette. I'm here! ” 

My surging ears heard his flying steps across 
the porch, the rip of the wire as he crashed 
through the screen. I saw him leap on Patton’s 
shoulders and we all went to the floor to¬ 
gether. 

Freed by the fall, I scrambled into a comer, 
crouching there while the two men rolled and 
struggled on the floor, breathing hoarsely like 
fighting dogs. 

The chairs crashed, the table overturned, the 
lamp on the dresser tottered, as locked in a 
fierce embrace, they pitched about on the floor. 
Sometimes Halleck’s tense white face showed, 
only to be blotted out as Patton’s bloated visage 
came to view. 

Patton broke loose from Halleck’s grip and 
staggered to his feet, but like a wild animal 
Halleck leaped upon him and bore him down 
again, and uppermost, astride of his burly 


SOIL, THE MASTER 309 

body, Halleck’s fingers gripped and sank into 
his pulpy throat. 

Patton’s face purpled, his starting eyeball 
bulged the swollen lids apart. He writhed and 
twisted, his heavy limbs threshing the air, and 
his body rolled under Halleck’s inferior weight. 

From my corner, watching dully, I saw that 
his bulk was too much for Halleck. Little by 
little, almost imperceptibly, Halleck gave way. 
With his teeth clenched and every nerve 
strained to the breaking point, I saw Halleck 
give out his last ounce. And Patton, with a 
final lurch, flung him to the floor and set a 
heavy knee on his chest. 

“ Now I’ve got you! Damn you! ” 

His fiendish face with his coarse lips drawn 
back from his tobacco stained teeth, hung over 
Halleck, but I couldn’t move. 

He paused, gulping for breath, then he 
reached somewhere in his clothes and jerked out 
a long knife. 

Halleck’s face white with defeat, his eyes of 
lost hope, told me the thing was over. I knew 
we were near together, and near Paul. I shut 
my eyes, brain and body inert and powerless, 
as if I were already dead, waiting for the 
sound of the blow that would let out Halleck’s 
life. 

But Halleck’s last thought was for me. His 


310 SOIL, THE MASTER 

last breath hissing through his spent lungs 
panted: 

“ Get out of here, Annette! Run! " 

It galvanized me into life. 

With an uncivilized yell I rolled out of my 
corner, gripped both hands full of Patton's 
bushy hair and jerked his head backward. 

He had to come with it. 

As he lurched and sprawled, Halleck pounced 
upon him, grabbed his arm, twisted it under 
him and threw his weight on it. 

The bone snapped like a stick. 

The knife fell to the floor and his shriek of 
pain and fury filled the house, and with it, the 
fight went out of him. 

“ He's safe now," panted Halleck holding 
him down. “ Let go, Annette dear; don't 
scalp him. Get something to tie him with." 

Reluctantly I released my hold, caught up a 
turkish towel, and cutting wide strips from it 
with Patton's own knife, I helped Halleck bind 
him hand and foot. 

He groaned and writhed feebly, cursing Hal¬ 
leck with everything he could lay to his tongue. 

“ Cut that out," said Halleck curtly. “ That 
don’t buy you anything! Besides Miss Torrel’s 
heard enough." 

Anger flared into Patton's pain racked face. 
He flung one bitter word toward me. 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


311 


Halleck lifted his clenched fist and I thought 
he was going to strike, but he gritted his teeth 
and, busy with his knots, he cast his eyes 
about the floor. They fell on my silk stockings 
under the bed. 

With a sweep of his arm he gathered them up 
and crammed one into Patton’s offensive mouth. 
A deft twist tied the other around his bearded 
jaw. 

The job finished, we both stood up, confront¬ 
ing each other. 

Halleck’s face was still white with the strain 
and his light shirt torn and blood stained, and 
pulled out half way round. Mechanically he 
began stuffing it in. 

“ My God, Annette! That was a close call! 
Where did you come from? How did Patton get 
here? What does it all mean? How did he 
know you were here? ” 

I filled my still smarting lungs to answer 
him, but my glance went past his pallid face to 
the mirror behind him, to my own horrible 
reflection. 

There I saw myself with torn clothing and 
streaming hair, my face stained with blood, my 
lips cut and swollen, and a black bruise over my 
left temple. 

I didn’t answer Halleck. Turning away in 
horror, I saw myself a cut-back from civiliza- 


312 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


tion, a fighting savage. I could see, standing 
beside me, Dustan’s mother, cool, pale and 
gracious; Serena, with uplifted eyebrows, and 
Dustan, so like his mother, looking at me with 
pained eyes. 

I covered my dreadful face with my hands 
and began to sob. 

Halleck came and put his arms around me, 
and tried to draw me out of the room, but I 
hung back, crying hysterically: 

“ Don’t touch me, Halleck! Don’t look at 
me! ” 

“ Why? ” 

“I’m a savage,” I wailed; “ a fighting 
squaw! ” 

He gently pulled my hands down from my 
face, and with great tenderness kissed my 
bruised lips, and folded me close in his arms 
again. 

“ No, you’re not, honey. You’re all right! 
The nerviest little scrapper in the world. Don’t 
cry, dear; don’t cry! ” 

But I clung to him, sobbing in hysterical 
reaction. “ I look so! ” 

“ You’re beautiful,” he averred. “ Come, 
let’s go out on the back porch and wash up. 
You’ll feel better then.” 

I yielded to his urge and he led me through 
the house as far as the telephone in the dining 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


313 


room. There, while he held me with one arm 
against his shoulder, he telephoned to the 
Officers to come and get Patton. 

“ I’ll see that he’s put somewhere this time 
so he won’t bother you any more, Annette, if 
I have to send him to the Morgue.” 

A faint groan came from the bed room. 

“ Halleck, he must be suffering.” 

“ It won’t be long. The sheriff said he’d 
come right out, and bring a doctor with him.” 

He hung up the receiver and we went on to 
the well. He drew a bucket of water and filled 
the battered old blue and white basin for me. 
Standing near me while I dipped my face and 
hands in its grateful chill, he asked: 

“ Why did you call me, Annette? ” 

“ I don’t know,” I said shakily. “ How did 
you happen to hear me? ” 

“ I was on my way up here,” he answered. 
“ Bob broke a sickle this afternoon, and I came 
up to see if A1 had any section rivets. I 
thought he was at home, but I didn’t know you 
were here until I heard you call. Good God, 
Annette! If I hadn’t heard you! ” 

I emptied the basin and went to fill it for 
him. He followed me, and putting his arm 
about me, he poured the water from the bucket 
while I held the basin. He washed, and we 
used the roller towel together. 


314 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


He repeated the children's rhyme: 

“ 1 Wash and wipe together, 

Live a happy life forever.' Won’t we, An¬ 
nette? ” 

I nodded, with my face buried in the towel. 

“ But, Halleck," I said, uncovering my face. 
“ It really doesn't matter now, but it's been on 
my mind so long — " I asked him about his 
intentions to marry the ranch. 

“ How did you know I said that? " In his 
surprise he paused from scrubbing his wet hair, 
leaving one long tousled lock standing like a 
corkscrew on end. 

I didn't tell him. 

“ Yes, I said it,” he confessed; “ to fool old 
Bob — I had to shut him up somehow; he was 
too near to guessing my number. But it wasn't 
the ranch. To tell the truth, honey, the way 
things looked, I didn't think you were going to 
make it. It was you, but I couldn't tell Bob 
that, because he loved you too.” 

“ But hadn’t you promised to go with him? ” 

“ Sure. But hadn’t I promised to stay with 
you? How did you find out all this? ” he in¬ 
sisted. 

I told him briefly. “ And that was why — 
you had to wait; why I couldn't care whether I 
hurt you or not; why — I expect — I wanted 
to hurt you.” 


SOIL, THE MASTER 


315 


He dropped the towel and put his arms about 
me. “ You did hurt, honey, ” he said; “ but I 
could stand it as long as I had you — but when 
I lost you —.” His arms tightened and held me 
closer. “ I love you, Annette. I have loved 
you all the time since the first day when you 
showed me how you drove a Ford.” 

“ Halleck, that was too silly of me! ” 

“ No, it wasn’t. It was just the person you 
are. How about it, dearest? I want to farm, 
but this darned life’s too lonesome without you. 
Won’t you come and let’s farm together? ” 
He threw back his head to search my face with 
the questioning eyes of an affectionate child. 

I looked into his clear eyes so full of love, and 
all petty things faded; — over me dawned the 
illuminating vision of the great light of life. I 
said: 

“ I must have loved you, Halleck, since the 
night we went after the lamb, but I’ve just 
found it out. Yet that’s soon enough, isn’t it? ” 
I put my arms tight around his neck, and laid 
my lips against his. And as we clasped each 
other in that close communion, I knew that the 
Master stood near, and his engulfing arms — 
the age old grip of the land encircled us and 
bound us to his service. 





































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